m        '■■■':'■■'■ 


MISTRESS 


QUEST 


ADELINE 
SERGEAN 


GIFT   OF 


THE 


MISTRESS  OF  QUEST 


A   NOVEL 


BY 


ADELINE    SERGEANT 


AUTHOR    OF   THE    SURRENDER    OF    MARGARET    BELLARMINE, 
THE    STORY    OF    A    PENITENT    SOUL,    UNDER    FALSE    PRETENCES,   ETC. 


' 


NEW     YORK 

D.     APPLETON     AND    COMPANY 

1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


P        ¥\ 

CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— Quest 1 

II. — Baby  Lisbeth's  protector 9 

III. — The  scene  changes 17 

IV. — The  dead  past 25 

V. — Alone  in  the  world 33 

VI. — Mr.  Creighton's  advertisement     ....  41 

VII. — By  the  quarry 49 

VIII. — An  unwelcome  guest 57 

IX. — Conditions 65 

X. — In  the  moonlight     .......  73 

XI. — The  new  life 81 

XH. — The  die  is  cast        .......  89 

XI1L— By  Crosthwaite  Tarn 98 

XIV. — "  Look  before  you  leap  ! " 106 

XV. — Julian's  wish 115 

XVI.— Love  or  life? .123 

XVII. — "I  will  remember" 132 

XVIII.— By  the  tarn 141 

XIX. — Seeking  and  finding 149 

XX.— "  Murder  ! " 158 

XXI. — Sinned  against  or  sinning? 167 

XXII.— Forgiveness 175 

XXIII.— "  Come  ! " 184 

XXIV.— The  trial 192 

XXV.— His  wife 201 

XXVI. — ';  Good-bye,  sweetheart  " 209 

XXVII. — Mrs.  Creighton's  youngest  daughter  .        .        .  219 

XXVIIL— Julian's  friend 227 

284303 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIX. — In  which  Edmund  is  diplomatic         .        .        .  236 

XXX. — A  marriage  day 245 

XXXI. — A    MISSING   VOLUME 253 

XXXII.— After  two  years  . 2G1 

XXXI1L— Mrs.  Creighton's  suggestions     .        .        .        .269 

XXXIV.— Retribution 278 

XXXV.— In  the  dusk 287 

XXXVI.— A    STRONG    APPEAL 295 

XXXVII.— In  hospital 303 

XXXVIII. — Edmund  makes  amends 312 

XXXIX.— Too  late 320 

XL.— Farewell  to  Quest 329 


THE   MISTRESS   OP   QUEST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

QUEST. 


Hill  and  valley  lay  silent  in  the  baking  heat  of  a  sultry 
summer  afternoon.  There  was  no  breeze,  not  even  on  the 
fell,  where  usually  a  light  wind  was  wafted  in  the  hottest 
days  of  July.  Bat  on  this  day  the  branches  of  the  larches 
and  rowan  trees  drooped  motionless  over  the  waters  of  the 
Force,  and  they  themselves  seemed  to  trickle  languidly,  as 
if  their  life  were  half  extinguished  by  the  summer  drought. 
The  sky  was  cloudless,  and  the  rugged  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains seemed  actually  to  quiver  in  the  sunlight.  Every 
fragment  of  flint  on  the  roadside  glittered  like  a  diamond; 
the  black  and  purple  tints  of  the  moorland  were  transfig- 
ured in  a  golden  haze. 

It  was  a  day  such  as  comes  only  now  and  then  to  the 
wild  Cumberland  fell-sides,  and  it  touched  even  the  sullen 
tarns  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  and  the  bare  stretches 
of  upland,  scanty  in  pasture,  yellowed  by  the  heat,  to  a  new 
beauty  and  a  splendour  of  colour  such  as  no  artist  would 
fail  to  recognise. 

High  up  among  the  hills,  just  between  two  great  ascend- 
ing spurs,  with  a  background  of  receding  mountains,  and  a 
sloping  space  before  it,  stood  a  grey  stone  house,  with  a  low 
roof  and  quaint  little  dormer  windows.  A  mountain  stream 
dashed  past  it,  with  many  a  little  natural  fall  and  break,  on 
its  way  from  the  tarns  among  the  hills,  to  join  the  river  in 
the  valley  far  below.     This  stream  was  edged  with  low- 

1 


2  THE  MlST.ftESS  OF  QUEST. 

growing  frees,  wdIow,;  mountain  ash,  and  elder  tree;  but 
there  were  no  "  forest  kings"  in  the  vicinity,  and  the  house 
stood  bare  and  square  without  shadowing  verdure  of  any 
kind.  But  for  at  least  part  of  the  day  it  lay  in  the  shadow 
of  the  great  hill  on  one  of  its  sides,  and  was  preserved  there- 
fore from  the  glare ;  and  the  garden  that  stretched  in  front 
of  it  was  a  glow  of  bloom. 

Hardy  annuals  grew  there  freely,  and  at  present  the 
glory  of  the  farmhouse  garden  was  a  mass  of  phlox,  in  dif- 
ferent shades  of  crimson,  pink,  and  white — a  mass  of  colour 
which  almost  filled  the  beds,  and  left  little  room  for  any 
other  plant  to  display  itself.  But  there  were  other  flowers, 
less  pretentious,  but  sweet  and  homely,  in  the  corners  of  the 
garden  and  under  the  grey  stone  walls.  Mignonette  grew 
lavishly,  and  honeysuckle  climbed  about  the  stones;  tiger- 
lilies  in  a  stately  row  were  not  yet  over,  and  sunflowers  and 
hollyhocks  scarcely  in  blossom  gave  ample  promise  of  glo- 
ries yet  to  come.  Near  the  porch  and  over  it,  a  great  bush 
of  traveller's  joy  had  spread,  and  twined,  and  twisted  from 
time  immemorial;  strangers  stopped  to  look  at  it  as  they 
went  past,  for  it  was  rumoured  to  be  as  old  as  the  house 
itself,  and  the  house  had  been  built  in  its  original  form  some 
three  hundred  years  ago. 

Quest,  the  place  was  called,  and  few  knew  how  or  why. 
An  antiquarian  was  reported  to  have  said  that  it  had  once 
been  called  Quest  Royal,  and  had  been  built  as  a  sort  of 
keeper's  lodge  in  days  when  mighty  hunters  came  that  way. 
Who  the  royal  personages  might  be  who  looked  for  sport  in 
the  wilds  of  Cumberland  in  its  confessedly  savage  times  he 
could  not  undertake  to  say.  Its  owner,  Farmer  Verrall,  set- 
tled the  matter  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  by  declaring  with 
a  great  laugh  that  neither  kings  nor  princes  had  ever  come 
his  way,  and  that  as  the  house  had  been  called  in  his  great- 
grandfather's day,  so  it  should  be  called  in  his.  please  God. 
And  he  did  not  see  why  people  should  hunt  about  for  rea- 
sons of  things  that  had  always  been,  and  always  would  be. 
Whence  it  may  be  seen  that  Farmer  Verrall  was  a  man  of 
what  is  sometimes  termed  '*  the  old  school." 


QUEST.  3 

Verrall  was  in  reality  deeply  attached  to  his  old  house. 
He  loved  every  stick  and  stone  of  it — from  the  queer  old 
weathercock  on  the  gable,  and  the  carved  date  and  initials 
on  the  stone  above  the  doorway,  to  the  crumbling  wainscot 
panelling  in  the  more  ancient  rooms,  and  the  stone  work 
about  the  narrow  latticed  windows.  The  house  had  been 
enlarged  more  than  once,  and  stood  much  in  the  shape  of 
the  letter  L  :  the  shorter  end  forming  the  old  and  foremost 
portion  of  the  building,  the  long  line  of  the  letter  being 
made  by  a  newer  wing.  It  was  a  roomier  old  place  than  it 
at  first  appeared  ;  and  it  had  the  advantage — not  much  ap- 
preciated by  its  occupants — of  possessing  a  magnificent  view 
of  the  valley  below.  The  panorama  on  a  clear  bright  day 
of  sloping  moorland,  of  rich  pasture,  through  which  ran  the 
silver  river  on  whose  banks  a  grey  little  town  with  its  spires 
and  towers  was  picturesquely  placed,  was  exceedingly  beau- 
tiful, and  formed  a  great  contrast  to  the  beetle-browed  crags 
at  the  foot  of  which,  or  amongst  which,  rather,  stood  the  old 
farmhouse  of  Quest. 

The  farm  buildings  were  further  back,  not  readily  to  be 
distinguished  at  a  little  distance  from  the  purple-grey  slates 
of  the  hill  against  which  they  were  set.  Usually  there  was 
a  great  appearance  of  life  about  the  place;  birds  and  beasts 
made  a  pleasant  clatter  ;  men  and  maids  came  and  went; 
the  doors  stood  hospitably  open,  and  there  was  a  ready  wel- 
come for  any  toiling  passer-by  who  liked  to  ask  for  a  drink 
of  milk  and  a  crust  of  bread.  But  on  this  afternoon  there 
was  not  a  sound  stirring.  Perhaps  the  heat  had  silenced 
the  cheerful  voices,  and  stayed  the  too  eager  steps.  If  the 
observer  had  looked  a  little  more  closely,  however,  he  might 
have  divined  that  sickness  or  sorrow  had  given  rise  to  this 
unusual  stiliness,  rather  than  the  heat  of  the  day.  In  one 
room  the  blind  was  down,  the  sash  of  the  window  raised, 
the  white  curtains  seen  to  be  flapping  a  little  as  a  faint 
breeze  got  up.  The  faces  of  the  servants,  occasionally  ap- 
pearing at  door  or  window,  were  still  and  silent  :  the  farm 
labourers  avoided  the  house  as  much  as  possible.  Some- 
thing at  Quest  was  very  much  amiss. 


4  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Once  a  little  boy  of  six  or  seven  years  old  ran  out  into 
the  yard  with  a  toy  in  his  hand,  and  stood  bareheaded  in 
the  sunshine.  He  was  a  lean,  lank  little  fellow,  with  plenty 
of  muscle  for  his  age,  and  a  shock  of  fair  hair  above  his 
deep-set  eyes;— not  a  very  prepossessing  child,  but  curiously 
different  from  the  average  farmer's  offspring  in  that  district. 
Yet  it  was  Farmer  Verrall's  only  son,  and  he  was  not  unlike 
his  father.  He  stood  there  for  some  time,  pouting  and 
frowning,  as  if  vexed  at  something  which  had  just  occurred ; 
and  even  the  advent  of  an  old  labourer  in  a  smock-frock, 
with  a  pitchfork  over  his  shoulder,  did  not  disturb  him. 

A  buxom  servant  girl  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door  at 
that  moment,  and  to  her  the  labourer  addressed  himself  in 
a  subdued  tone. 

"  How  goes  it,  Kezia  ? " 

Kezia  shook  her  head.  "  Ah  reckon  hoo'll  last  till  sun- 
down," she  replied. 

uHech!"  The  old  man  made  a  guttural  click  in  his 
throat,  to  express  regret. 

"  Hoo  was  a  gradely  lass,"  he  murmured,  as  he  turned 
away. 

"Zadock,"  said  Kezia,  sharply,  but  still  in  a  subdued 
voice,  "  what  art  a-doin'  oot  i'  this  fell  heat  ?  Coom  thy 
way  in." 

Zadock  turned  his  sullen  grey  eyes  upon  her,  but  did  not 
move. 

"  Coom  in,  luve,  an'  ah'll  gie  thee  a  caake,"  said  Kezia,  try- 
ing the  coaxing  vein. 

Still  Zadock  did  not  budge. 

"Ah  marvel  at  thee  being  a  bad  boy — trouble  in  the 
hoose  an'  all.  Tha  sister'll  be  dead  afore  night,  an1  mebbe 
thou' 11  be  sorry." 

For  all  answer  to  this,  the  boy  ran  straight  from  her  into 
the  deep  cool  recesses  of  the  barn,  where  he  knew  that  he 
was  safe  from  Kezia  even  if  she  followed  him ;  for  she  could 
not  track  him  through  certain  intricacies  of  a  way  which 
he  had  made  for  himself  into  a  loft,  and  there  he  hid  him- 
self completely. 


QUEST.  5 

"  Such  a  limb  o'  Satan  ah  never  saw,"  said  Kezia,  return- 
ing to  her  kitchen,  and  detailing  her  experiences. 

Meanwhile  Zadock  waited  until  her  steps  had  died  away 
upon  the  flagstones  before  proceeding  to  bury  his  face  in  the 
hay  and  cry  outright.  Kezia  had  never  seen  him  cry  in  that 
way  since  he  was  born — not  even  when  his  father  had  taken 
the  big  cart- whip  to  him  for  telling  a  lie.  Old  Verrall  was 
a  Puritan  in  grain,  rigid  and  inflexible  to  the  core,  and 
Zadock  resembled  him,  point  by  point,  in  temperament  and 
characteristics.  The  boy  was  scarcely  ever  known  to  shed  a 
tear. 

But  now  he  wept  vigorously,  with  short,  hardly  sup- 
pressed cries,  and  choking  sobs,  and  contortions  of  his  limbs 
— only  as  a  child  weeps  in  some  great  agony.  There  was 
little  noise  about  his  grief;  the  heaving  sighs,  the  bitter 
tears,  were  almost  silent,  even  if  vehement.  It  was  long 
before  he  grew  calm,  and  then  he  lay  for  some  time  face 
downward  in  the  hay,  without  answering  one  or  two  muffled 
calls  that  came  to  him  from  the  yard. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  declining,  and  its  rays  lay  long 
and  level  along  the  hillsides,  emphasising  every  blazing 
stone,  every  scorched  tuft  of  grass,  and  every  low  wall,  with 
black  lines  of  shadow,  which  gradually  grew  softer  and  less 
distinct.  A  golden  beam  found  its  way  through  an  aperture 
in  the  wooden  wall  of  the  place  where  Zadock  had  found 
refuge.  He  lifted  his  head  and  stared  at  it.  He  knew  what 
it  meant.  The  sun  was  going  down.  And  Kezia  had  said 
that  his  sister,  whom  he  called  Lizzy,  and  whom  her  hus- 
band with  his  new-fangled  ways  always  addressed  as  Lisa, 
would  die  at  sundown.  He  accepted  Kezia's  verdict  as  in- 
fallible. Of  course  Lizzy  would  die — his  beloved  Lizzy,  who 
was  always  sweet  and  beautiful  and  good,  she  would  die  and 
go  to  heaven ;  and  he,  being  a  bad,  wicked  boy,  as  everybody 
told  him  in  his  little  world,  would  go  to  hell.  He  should 
never  see  her  any  more. 

The  desolation  of  his  soul  was  so  great  at  this  thought 
that  he  would  have  cried  again  had  not  his  mind  received  a 
new  impression.     He  heard  swift  wheels  approaching  the 


6  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

farmhouse.  They  came  from  the  valley — they  belonged 
then  to  the  doctor's  dogcart.  Perhaps  the  doctor  could  do 
Lizzy  some  good.  Perhaps  he  would  say  she  was  not  going 
to  die.  He  scrambled  out  of  his  nest  among  the  hay,  and, 
still  unconsciously  clasping  his  toy  cart  under  his  arm,  he 
scrambled  along  the  beams,  dropped  on  the  wooden  partition, 
and,  after  hanging  for  a  moment  by  both  hands  to  the  top, 
let  himself  down  to  the  ground. 

As  he  ran  out  the  doctor  was  entering  at  the  gate.  He 
was  a  kindly-looking,  weather-beaten  man,  with  grey  hair 
and  whiskers,  rather  ponderous  in  his  movements,  but  con- 
veying in  some  mysterious  way  a  conviction  that  he  was  a 
man  whom  you  could  trust.  Zadock  Verrall  knew  this  quite 
well,  although  he  was  not  eight  years  old.  He  ran  up  to 
Dr.  Spencer,  tugged  at  his  coat-tails,  and  breathlessly  asked 
his  question— 

"  My  Lizzy !     Be  she  going  to  die  ? " 

Kezia  would  have  rebuked  him  for  hard-heartedness  ; 
the  doctor  knew  better.  He  looked  at  the  sturdy  little  figure 
in  its  blue  blouse  and  hob-nailed  boots,  with  the  toy  cart 
crushed  under  its  arm  ;  at  the  tousled  mop  of  hair,  in  which 
dust  and  hay-seed  and  straw  were  conspicuous  ;  at  the 
swollen  eyelids  and  rosy  face,  all  disfigured  by  much  crying, 
and  he  answered  with  a  touch  of  tenderness  which  he  had 
never  thought  to  show  the  boy  who  was  the  veriest  imp  of 
mischief  in  the  country  side. 

u  God's  going  to  take  her  home,  my  lad,"  he  said,  serious- 
ly, and  not  without  some  moisture  in  his  eye. 

"  She've  got  a  whoame  here  wi'  us,"  said  the  boy,  paus- 
ing. 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Dr.  Spencer,  more  to  himself  than  to 
Zadock,  "  we  think  little  enough  of  that  other  one,  without 
a  doubt.     Here,  my  boy,  do  you  want  to  see  Lizzy  again  ? " 

Zadock  nodded:  his  throat  was  too  full  for  speech. 

"  Come  up  with  me,  then— very  softly,  mind ;  if  you  make 
a  noise  you'll  be  put  out." 

"  I  wean't  make  noa  noise,"  said  Zadock,  gruffly.  At  last 
he  remembered  his  toy,  threw  it  down  on  the  ground,  and 


QUEST.  7 

followed  the  doctor.  When,  at  the  bedroom  door,  Dr. 
Spencer  looked  round  he  saw  the  childish  face  set  into  so 
exact  an  image  of  his  father's  grim  features  that  he  lifted 
his  eyebrows  in  amaze,  and  spoke  no  further  warning  word. 
"  One  can  trust  a  lad  who  looks  like  that,"  was  the  thought 
that  glimmered  through  the  doctor's  mind. 

Elizabeth  Lorimer,  the  farmer's  married  daughter,  lay- 
dying.  She  was  only  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  she  had 
scarcely  been  married  a  full  year.  Her  short  life  had  been 
a  very  happy  one,  and  she  seemed  as  full  of  vigour  as  of 
beauty.  She  was  certainly  a  very  beautiful  woman ;  but  the 
vigour  had  perhaps  been  more  apparent  than  real,  for  she 
was  sinking  into  her  grave  from  sheer  exhaustion  after  the 
birth  of  her  little  girl.  Zadock,  who  had  not  seen  her  for 
many  days,  hardly  knew  her  now  that  she  was  so  white,  so 
wan,  with  such  blue  tints  about  the  pinched  mouth  and  nose, 
such  violet  shadows  on  the  half-closed  eyelids.  If  he  had 
not  given  his  promise  to  be  quiet,  he  would  have  called  out 
— "That  is  not  my  Lizzy;  not  my  Lizzy  at  all.  Where  have 
you  taken  sister  Liz  ? " 

The  dying  woman's  husband  was  kneeling  beside  her, 
with  his  head  buried  in  the  bedclothes.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary for  him  to  lift  his  face  to  betray  the  fact  that  he  was 
"  a  gentleman  " :  no  common  yeoman  of  the  wolds  and  fells. 
The  way  he  wore  his  rough  clothes,  the  way  his  hair  was 
cut,  the  whiteness  of  his  hands,  his  very  posture,  in  spite  of 
his  want  of  self-restraint,  betrayed  him.  He  was  sobbing 
now — sobbing  aloud,  and  murmuring  incoherent  curses  or 
prayers:  nobody  could  quite  tell  what;  and  his  wife's  pale 
hand  rested  softly  on  his  black  curly  hair.  James  Lorimer 
was  an  artist  by  profession,  and  he  had  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment :  that  is  to  say,  he  was  easily  swayed  by  gusts  of  pas- 
sion, and  by  fitful  storms  of  love  or  hate.  He  had  been  des- 
perately in  love  with  the  farmer's  daughter,  whom  he  had 
wooed  and  won ;  and  had  been  quite  content,  after  a  winter 
abroad,  to  spend  spring  and  summer  at  her  father's  house. 
But  now  she  was  dying,  after  this  one  short  year  of  happi- 
ness :   no   power  on   earth  could  save  her;   and   Lorimer 


8  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. _ 

sounded  a  gulf  of  despair  which  hitherto  he  had  never 
known. 

"  Jim ! "  the  feeble  voice  sounded  at  last ;  and  he  checked 
his  sobs  to  listen.     "  Jim !  " 

"  Yes,  my  own  darling. " 

"  I'm  going,  Jim.  .  .  .  You  won't  forget  me  ?  " 

"  Never — never — never ! " 

"  We've  been  very  happy,  Jim.  Tell  father  so.  Father 
.  .  .  you  don't  know  how  happy  I've  been.  It  seems — 
rather  hard — to  go." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  the  room.  The  cry  of  a 
baby's  voice  was  suddenly  heard,  and  Lisa  opened  her  eyes 
widely  and  looked  from  face  to  face. 

"  Bring  me  my  baby,"  she  said  almost  imperiously.  "  I 
want  to  see  her  again.     Please  bring  her,  nurse." 

The  tiny  red-faced  creature  was  laid  beside  her,  and  she 
looked  at  it  with  a  wistful  little  smile. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  be — like  me — when  she  grows 
up  ? "  she  asked.     "  What  is  her  name  to  be,  Jim  ? " 

"  We  call  it  after  you,  Lisa.  It  was  christened  Eliza- 
beth." 

"  You  will  remember  me— by  her,"  she  said  faintly,  and 
closed  her  eyes  again.  When  she  opened  them,  they  fell 
full  upon  her  half-brother,  Zadock,  who  was  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  regarding  her  pallid  face  with  awe.  A  look 
of  comprehension  came  into  the  dying  woman's  eyes.  Next 
to  Jim,  it  was  Zadock  who  wanted  comfort  most. 

"Let  Zadock  come  here — close  to  me,"  she  whispered. 
"  Zadock,  do  you  see— the  baby— my  little  baby  ? " 

Zadock  nodded  assent. 

"  You  love  me,  don't  you,  Zadock  ?  I  want  you  to  love 
baby,  too.     You'll  be  good  to  baby,  will  you  not  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Zadock,  with  a  gulp.  He  had  always 
hated  babies  before,  but  he  would  love  this  one  for  Lizzy's 
sake. 

"  Kiss  me,"  said  the  dying  girl,  with  a  happy  smile;  and 
then  she  let  them  take  the  babe  away  from  her,  and  turned 
her  face  once  more  to  her  husband's  longing  eyes.     But  the 


BABY   LISBETH'S   PROTECTOR.  9 

change  had  come:  her  last  request  was  spoken,  her  farewell 
kiss  bestowed.  Zadock  had  had  both,  and  he  never  lost  the 
memory  of  either.  She  died  at  sundown,  with  her  husband's 
hand  in  hers. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BABY  LISBETH'S  PROTECTOR. 

The  Gap,  as  the  spot  where  Quest  stood  was  called,  had 
attained  a  certain  amount  of  celebrity  among  landscape 
painters,  on  account  of  the  exquisite  views  of  hill  and  vale 
which  could  be  obtained  in  its  vicinity.  The  reputation  of 
the  place  had  brought  James  Lorimer,  a  young  and  rising 
artist,  to  spend  a  summer  among  the  Cumberland  fells ;  and 
it  was  here  that  he  met  Lizzy  Verrall,  the  daughter  of 
Farmer  Verrall  of  Quest.  From  the  first  moment  he  fell 
wildly  in  love  with  her,  and  lost  no  time  in  apprising  her  of 
his  love.  Lizzy  was  very  simple,  very  loving,  very  dutiful : 
she  would  not  for  the  world  have  married  James  Lorimer 
if  her  father  had  disapproved ;  but  she  had  not  to  meet  with 
the  opposition  that  she  feared. 

John  Verrall,  shrewd  in  his  way,  was  not  very  worldly- 
wise  ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  rather  condescend- 
ing to  James  Lorimer  by  giving  him  his  daughter,  than 
advancing  her  interests  in  any  respect.  He  liked  the  young 
man  in  a  friendly,  patronising  sort  of  way  :  Lorimer  seemed 
to  have  no  vices  ;  he  neither  smoked,  swore,  drank,  or 
flirted  :  he  was  absorbed  in  his  art  and  in  his  love  for  Lizzy. 
He  had  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  of  his  own,  and 
he  could  sometimes— as  he  modestly  said— manage  to  sell  a 
picture.  He  promised  to  bring  Lizzy  back  to  her  father's 
house  every  year,  for  three  months  if  not  for  six  ;  and  after 
some  very  little  hesitation  the  farmer  yielded  to  his  daugh- 
ter's solicitations,  and  the  marriage  took  place. 

It  was  by  no  means  an  unsuccessful  marriage.  There 
was  love  on  both  sides.    And  Lizzy— or  Lisa,  as  James  Lori- 


10  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

mer  always  called  her — was  of  a  very  receptive  nature,  easily 
moulded  into  the  semblance  of  culture  and  social  usage. 
Refinement  she  possessed  by  nature  to  an  uncommon  de- 
gree ;  and  it  speaks  well  for  her  tact  that  never  once  did 
James  Lorimer  find  himself  incommoded  by  mistakes,  by 
misapprehension,  by  jealousy  or  ill  temper  on  his  wife's  part. 
Indeed,  she  had  a  really  fine  nature  of  peculiar  calmness 
and  discrimination  ;  but  her  husband,  lost  in  admiration  of 
her  hair  and  eyes  and  complexion,  valued  her  moral  and 
mental  character  much  less  than  her  beauty,  and  even  when 
he  sorrowed  for  her  most,  never  realised  the  full  extent  of 
his  loss. 

After  the  winter  abroad,  Lorimer  had  brought  his  wife 
to  Quest,  as  he  had  promised  the  farmer  he  would  do.  She 
had  particularly  wanted  her  baby  to  be  born  at  Quest.  And 
Lorimer  liked  the  place  :  he  made  plenty  of  his  light,  bright, 
amateurish  sketches  of  fell  side  scenery  while  he  was  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  he  amused  himself  by  occasional  excur- 
sions to  the  bigger  towns  of  the  county.  Lisa  was  calmly 
happy  in  her  old  home. 

When  her  husband  was  absent,  she  made  a  companion 
of  her  half-brother,  Zadock,  and  won  his  heart  to  a  more 
passionate  devotion  to  her  than  to  any  other  person  in  the 
world — not  excepting  his  own  mother.  The  second  Mrs. 
Verrall  was  a  placid,  comfortable,  characterless  person,  who 
wTas  not  likely  to  impress  her  individuality  very  strongly  on 
anybody.  Zadock,  hitherto  unruly  and  unmanageable,  was 
completely  under  Lisa's  control ;  and  her  death  was  as  great 
a  grief  and  loss  to  him  as  any  child  of  his  age  could  be  called 
on  to  undergo. 

Dreary  beyond  description  were  the  days  that  intervened 
between  the  death  and  the  funeral  of  poor  Elizabeth  Lori- 
mer. The  old  farmer  was  as  broken-hearted  as  the  husband. 
The  very  servants  went  about  with  tears  in  their  eyes  and 
solemn  looks  upon  their  faces.  Quest  would  never  be  the 
same  place  again,  they  opined,  u  after  this."  And  certainly 
to  James  Lorimer  it  could  never  be  the  same. 

He  said  as  much  to  John  Verrall,  when  the  funeral  was 


BABY  LISBETH'S  PROTECTOR.  11 

over,  and  the  two  men  sat  together  late  at  night  in  the  great 
kitchen  or  u  houseplace,"  where  the  huge  rafters  and  beams 
of  the  roof,  the  heavy  wooden  furniture,  the  shining  tins 
and  crockery,  the  red-flagged  floor,  and  yellow- washed  walls 
were  in  turn  illuminated  by  a  flash  of  flame  that  crept  up 
between  the  red-hot  smouldering  peat  with  which  the  grate 
was  half -filled. 

The  farmer  always  smoked  his  pipe  by  this  fire  before 
going  to  bed ;  sometimes,  indeed,  he  sat  there  half  the  even- 
ing, but  James  Lorimer  seldom  joined  him.  The  little  par- 
lour was  intolerable  to  him  ;  but  Lisa,  with  a  keen  appre- 
ciation of  her  husband's  temperament,  and  her  husband's 
needs,  had  turned  one  of  the  upper  rooms  into  a  studio  for 
him— a  really  charming  studio— rough,  indeed,  but  pictur- 
esque, with  a  good  light  and  plenty  of  space  for  movement ; 
and  here  in  the  evenings  Lorimer  usually  sat  with  her  and 
smoked  a  cigarette.  It  was  the  remembrance  of  these  even- 
ings that  made  even  the  studio  unbearable  to  him  now.  He 
preferred  the  kitchen,  and  the  old  man's  pipe.  Something 
also  of  the  community  of  sorrow  drew  the  hearts  of  the  two 
men  together. 

"Ay,"  said  the  farmer,  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  "Quest 
'11  be  a  changed  place  now,  it  will." 

His  accent  was  provincial,  but  not  utterly  rustic,  like 
that  of  the  men  on  the  farm.  Lorimer  used  to  think  it  vil- 
lainous, but  he  stopped  to  notice  that  it  did  not  grate  upon 
him  now. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  stay  here,"  said  the  young  man,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hands.  "I  feel  as  if  I  should  go  mad— to 
stay— where  she  lived  and  died— and  is  buried— God  in 
Heaven!  don't  you  all  look  upon  me  as  a  murderer?  I 
wonder  you  didn't  cast  me  into  the  grave  along  with  her— I 
wish  you  had ! " 

"It  is  the  Lord  that  gave,  and  the  Lord  that  taketh 
away,"  said  the  farmer,  solemnly;  "blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.  Young  man,  it  would  be  better  for  thee  to  go 
away  for  a  time— to  travel  in  strange  lands,  and  leave  us 
here  with  our  dead.    I  should  have  borne  thee  a  grudge,  lad, 


12  THE  MISTRESS   OF  QUEST. 

if  thou  hadst  laid  our  girl  far  away  from  us.  We  fell-folk 
like  to  keep  together,  in  life  or  death." 

"  There  is  no  place  I  care  to  go  to,"  said  Lorimer,  lifting 
his  head  a  little,  and  staring  sullenly  into  the  fire.  He  had 
not  heard  half  that  Farmer  Verrall  bad  said. 

"  I  heard  talk  of  Algery,  or  some  such  outlandish  place," 
said  the  farmer,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes— with  her — with  her.  Don't  you  see  that  it  makes 
all  the  difference  ?  How  can  I  bear  to  go  alone  ?  It  is  noth- 
ing to  me  without  her — without  my  Lisa." 

The  farmer  was  silent.  Lorimer's  passionate,  uncon- 
trolled grief  was  mysterious  to  him.  He  himself  could 
hardly  say  a  w7ord  about  his  own,  and  yet  his  heart  was 
heavy  with  the  sense  of  loss.  "  Thee'd  best  go,  lad,"  he  said, 
with  rough  kindness.  "  Lizzy'd  think  none  the  more  o'  thee 
for  making  thyself  miserable.  Go  and  travel  about  a  bit, 
and  paint  thy  pictures,  if  thee  will.  If  th'  hast  no  money, 
take  mine.     My  purse  is  open  to  thee,  for  Lizzy's  sake." 

"You  were  always  kind,  Mr.  Verrall,"  said  Lorimer, 
vehemently.  "  Kinder  than  I  deserve.  I  thank  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart.  But  I've  got  as  much  money  as  I 
want— for  the  present.  It's  the  child  I've  been  thinking  of; 
what  am  I  to  do  with  the  child  ? " 

The  farmer  pondered.  "  Thee's  got  no  kith  or  kin— sis- 
ters, aunts,  and  so  on— as  would  like  to  rear  it  for  thee  ?  " 

"  Not  one.  Not  one  I  can  ask,  at  any  rate,"  said  Lorimer, 
hastily. 

"  It  beats  me,  then,"  said  Verrall,  slowly,  "to  know  why 
thee  dostn't  leave  it  here.  Mother  'ud  be  fain  to  see  after 
it." 

"  Leave  it  here  ? "  said  Jim  Lorimer.     "  Leave  it  here  ?  " 

He  had  not  thought  of  that.  He  had  already  been  vague- 
ly impatient  of  the  vista  of  possibilities  opening  out  before 
him — the  prospect  of  a  nursery  establishment,  of  a  nurse,  of 
a  baby's  requirements.  What  was  he  to  do— a  man  to  whom 
marriage  even  had  brought  no  peculiarly  sobering  domestic 
influence— as  a  young  widower  with  a  motherless  infant  ? 
The  situation  might  have  its  pathos;  but  for  Jim  Lorimer 


BABY  LISBETH'S  PROTECTOR.  13 

there  was  something  in  it  of  the  ridiculous,  too.  Domesticity 
had  never  been  his  line. 

To  leave  the  child  here,  at  the  farmhouse,  where  she 
would  probably  be  the  centre  of  love  and  care  such  as  could 
not  be  bought,  such  as  could  not  possibly  be  procured  for 
her  elsewhere :  was  not  this  the  best  solution  of  the  difficulty? 
True,  there  was  the  roughness  of  the  life,  the  want  of  refine- 
ment, to  be  faced;  but  if  this  had  not  hurt  Lisa,  why  should 
it  hurt  Lisa's  child  ?  Besides,  Lorimer  reflected,  when  the 
little  girl  was  three  or  four  years  old,  he  could  take  her  away 
from  Quest  and  send  her  to  board  elsewhere,  until  she  was 
old  enough  to  go  to  a  first-rate  London  school. 

He  closed  gratefully,  therefore,  with  Farmer  Verrall's 
offer.  He  would  leave  Baby  Elizabeth  with  Mrs.  Verrall  for 
a  few  months,  at  least,  while  he  went  abroad.  He  remarked, 
dismally  enough,  that  life  had  lost  its  savour  to  him,  and 
that  he  might  behold  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the 
glory  of  them  without  any  appreciable  result;  but  the 
farmer,  being  a  shrewd  man,  shook  his  head  a  little  over 
this  sentiment,  and  without  opposing  it  in  words,  said  to 
himself  that  the  day  would  come  when  Jim  Lorimer  would 
think  differently.  For,  after  all,  he  was  but  twenty-three, 
and  he  had  been  Lisa's  husband  something  less  than  one 
short  year. 

So,  in  a  few  days,  Lorimer  departed,  after  a  passion  of 
grief  over  his  baby's  cradle,  which  won  him  the  heart  of 
every  woman  at  Quest.  Curiously  enough,  it  did  not  win 
him  the  heart  of  one  of  Lisa's  sincerest  mourners,  the  small 
Zadock,  who  was  discovered  by  Kezia  in  the  act  of  aiming  a 
stone  at  Lorimer's  horse  as  he  rode  away. 

"  What's  that  for,  tha  bad  boy  ?  " 

u  Cause  I  hates  him,"  said  Zadock. 

"  Thee  ought  to  love  him;  tha  sister  loved  him." 

Whereupon  Zadock  scandalised  the  women-folk  by 
shouting  loudly " 

"  Ay,  but  he  don't  love  her." 

4k  Aw,  then,  harken  to  th'  bad  boy !  " 

"He  didn't  love  her,"  said  Zadock,  obstinately,  uan' 
2 


14  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

he  doan't  love  baby,  neither ;  an'  he'll  forget  'em  to- 
morrer." 

Mrs.  Verrall  was  so  much  shocked,  when  these  observa- 
tions were  repeated  to  her,  that,  mild  woman  as  she  usually 
was,  she  formally  requested  her  husband  to  give  Zadock 
"  the  stick,"  and  was  a  little  aggrieved  when  the  farmer,  for 
once  in  a  way,  declined. 

"  Zadock's  got  more  sense  sometimes  than  those  that  be 
older,"  he  remarked  sententiously.  And  Mrs.  Verrall  was 
obliged  to  hold  her  peace. 

For  one  thing,  she  said,  she  could  not  be  too  thankful — 
that  Zadock  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  the  baby.  If  he 
had  been  its  enemy,  Mrs.  Verrall  knew  well  that  the  house- 
hold would  have  no  peace.  Zadock  was  as  mischievous  as 
he  was  strong  and  clever  ;  and  not  without  fits  of  malice 
and  naughtiness  in  which  he  was  the  despair  of  his  friends. 
But,  as  it  happened,  the  baby  was  received  into  his  especial 
favour,  and  he  considered  himself  her  particular  friend  and 
defender.  Before  the  child  was  two  years  old  she  had 
come  to  know  that  Zadock  was  not  only  her  friend  and 
protector  but  her  slave.  And  for  her  sake  it  also  became 
evident  that  Zadock  would  exert  himself  to  be  "good." 
What  neither  parent  nor  schoolmaster  could  effect  in  sub- 
duing a  particularly  rebellious  disposition,  was  managed 
without  the  slightest  difficulty  by  a  baby  girl. 

There  was  a  great  storm  when  Jim  Lorimer  visited 
Quest  again,  because  Kezia  had  declared  that  "  Baby  'Lis- 
beth  "  would  have  to  go  away  with  him.  Zadock  raged 
and  sulked  alternately  for  hours,  until  it  was  discovered,  to 
the  relief  of  every  one  concerned,  that  Mr.  Lorimer  did  not 
want  his  baby  daughter  in  the  very  least,  nor  was  he  anx- 
ious to  remove  her  from  the  Verralls'  care.  "Whereupon, 
the  cloud  was  lifted  from  Zadock's  brow,  and  all  the  house- 
hold breathed  again. 

This  was  when  "  Lisbeth,"  as  they  called  her,  was  three 
years  old,  and  it  was  the  first  visit  that  Lorimer  had  paid 
to  the  Verralls  since  his  wife's  death.  He  gave  no  expla- 
nation and  vouchsafed  no  excuses  for  his  long  absence  and 


BABY  LISBETH'S  PROTECTOR.  15 

silence  ;  but  when  Mrs.  Verrall  inquired  anxiously  whether 
he  wished  to  take  the  child  away  with  him  he  started, 
flushed  deeply,  and  asked  if  she  were  tired  of  her  charge. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Verrall,  rather  indignantly,  "  but 
I  thought  ye'd  be  wanting  your  own  child  !  " 

"  It's  not  always  so  easy  for  a  man  to  arrange,"  Jim  be- 
gan ;  and  the  good  woman  took  up  the  sentence  with  a 
touch  of  self-reproach  in  her  tone. 

"  No,  it's  not  ;  special-like  for  a  widow-man."  And  she 
wondered  why  he  blushed  again  so  deeply  and  made  a 
sudden  movement  of  impatience.  "  We'll  keep  her,  an'  wel- 
come, Mr.  Lorimer  "—Mrs.  Verrall  had  never  ventured  to 
call  him  Jim—1'  and  hopes  you  think  she  does  us  credit." 

"  Certainly  she  does,"  said  Lorimer,  not  unkindly.  But 
his  tone  was  devoid  of  tenderness.  He  was  a  much  harder- 
looking  man  now  than  when  he  wept  over  his  baby's 
cradle  three  years  before. 

The  child  was  certainly  beautiful — well -featured,  clear- 
complexioned,  with  magnificent  eyes  and  curly  rings  of 
dark  hair  :  fat,  clean,  rosy,  evidently  of  splendid  physique 
in  every  way  ;  but,  to  Jim's  thinking,  absolutely  unlike  her 
dead  mother.  And  this  was — to  Jim  Lorimer — half  a  dis- 
appointment, half  a  relief. 

He  had  idealised  Lisa,  without  knowing  it,  during  the 
last  three  years.  She  had  come  to  mean  something  be- 
tween an  angel  and  a  heroine  of  romance  to  him.  He 
forgot  that  she  had  ever  had  red  hands  or  spoken  bad 
grammar.  She  was  grace,  beauty,  perfection  incarnate  ; 
and  her  daughter  ought  to  be  just  like  her  too. 

Jim  found  Lisbeth  quite  an  ordinary  child. 

She  had  a  deplorable  accent,  and  a  ragged  frock,  and 
her  hair  wras  all  over  her  eyes.  She  was  not  like  his  Lisa 
at  all ;  she  was  rough,  common,  coarse.  And,  on  the 
whole,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  liked  a  fair 
style  rather  than  a  dark  style  of  beauty  ;  not  that  there  was 
any  beauty  in  Lisbeth  to  admire. 

He  insisted  on  paying  certain  sums  of  money  for  her 
maintenance,  and  went  away,  promising  to  return  very 


IQ  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

shortly.  But  a  somewhat  untoward  accident  which  hap- 
pened at  this  juncture  perhaps  helped  to  make  him  more 
and  more  unwilling  to  return  to  Quest. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  house,  Zadock  stood  in  waiting  at 
the  gate.  He  did  not  try  this  time  to  throw  a  stone  at 
Lorimer's  horse  ;  he  was  older  now,  and  did  what  was 
worse  instead — threw  a  jeering  word. 

"  I  alius  said  you  didn't  care  for  our  Lizzy,"  he  called 
out,  defiantly,  although  Baby  Lisbeth  was  clinging  to  his 
hand,  and  Mrs.  Yerrall  was  looking  over  the  garden  wall. 

Jim  Lorimer  turned  white  with  wrath.  It  was  possibly 
not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  lifted  his  riding-whip  and 
struck  the  boy  :  he  was  not  a  man  of  any  self-restraint,  and 
the  lad's  words  had  an  unfortunate  sting  in  them.  But  he 
struck  carelessly,  and  more  heavily  than  he  knew.  When 
he  rode  off,  Zadock  was  lying  in  the  road,  with  the  blood 
flowing  from  a  cut  in  the  head.  But  Mrs.  Verrall  had 
rushed  out  to  her  boy's  assistance,  and  Lorimer  had  waited 
to  make  a  slight  apology,  and  to  see  him  return  to  con- 
sciousness. He  had  fallen  on  a  flint  and  cut  himself — it 
was  not  Lorimer's  blow  that  had  done  mischief,  and  neither 
Farmer  Verrall  nor  his  wife  ever  thought  of  blaming  Jim 
Lorimer  in  the  affair. 

But  the  unfortunate  thing  was  that  Zadock  was  never 
quite  the  same  after  that  accident  as  he  had  been  before.  A 
sort  of  cloud  seemed  to  settle  down  upon  him :  a  dulness  and 
depression  which  could  not  be  defined.  The  simple  folk  at 
Quest  did  not  recognise  it  as  illness:  they  did  not  connect  it 
particularly  with  Zadock's  fall  and  Jim  Lorimer's  blow;  but 
they  spoke  of  it  as  occurring  after  Lorimer's  last  visit,  with- 
out following  out  any  sequence  of  cause  or  effect.  Zadock 
was  a  good  lad  in  these  dull  days — a  far  better-behaved  lad 
than  he  would  have  been  without  Jim  Lorimer's  blow,  but 
he  had  not  the  same  force  and  fire,  the  same  brightness  and 
activity  of  mind. 

Lorimer  came  again  when  Lisbeth  was  eight  years  old; 
found  her  a  sunburnt,  rampant,  hoyden  of  a  girl,  with  plenty 
of  muscular  development,  and  no  education  at  all,  retired  in 


THE  SCENE  CHANGES.  tf 

disgust,  and  never  returned.  Farmer  Verrall  lost,  or  mis- 
took his  address,  and  finally  gave  up  all  hope  or  desire  of 
hearing  from  him.  Lisbeth  was  "  his  girl,  not  Lorimer's," 
he  declared ;  and  not  all  the  fathers  in  the  world  should  step 
in  now  to  take  the  girl  away  from  Quest. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

THE  SCENE  CHANGES. 

It  was  a  London  drawing-room  in  a  West-End  square. 
Not  the  most  fashionable  of  squares,  but  a  respectable  square: 
one  which  seemed  intended  to  represent  the  quintessence  of 
conventional  prosperity  and  propriety.  The  houses  were 
mostly  of  stone,  with  black  doors  ornamented  by  polished 
brass  handles  and  knockers,  and  furnished  with  enormous 
lamps  over  the  doorway.  In  summer,  when  the  balconies 
were  filled  with  flowers,  and  the  enclosure  inside  the  square 
was  green  with  foliage,  the  houses  looked  cheerful  enough ; 
but  in  a  November  fog  few  places  can  pretend  to  cheerful- 
ness, and  Croyland  Square  was  no  exception  to  this  rule. 
The  air  was  dark  and  heavy:  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  trees 
had  a  melancholy  air,  and  the  want  of  colour  and  life  which 
characterised  the  appearance  of  most  of  the  houses  was  de- 
cidedly depressing. 

Once  inside  the  black  doors,  in  many  cases,  the  scene  was 
absolutely  changed.  Brightness,  warmth,  comfort,  were  all 
to  be  found  inside  the  grey  stone  walls,  with  their  sombre 
narrow  windows  outlined  in  black,  and  their  dripping, 
dreary  porticoes.  Enter  the  door  of  number  twenty-one, 
for  instance,  and  you  passed  at  once  from  London  in  No- 
vember to  a  veritable  fairy-land. 

All  had  been  done  that  could  be  done  by  way  of  exclud- 
ing fog,  regulating  temperature,  emulating  sunshine.  The 
electric  lights  were  softened  by  shades  of  amber  and  rose- 
colour:  the  numerous  gauze-like  hangings  in  palest  rose  and 


18  THE    MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

silver  tints  were  renewed  so  frequently  that  they  had  no 
time  to  be  spoiled  by  London  smuts.  There  was  a  perfume 
of  flowers  up  and  down  the  softly-carpeted  stairs:  the  tinkle 
of  water  sounded  from  a  fountain  in  the  conservatory,  and 
a  twitter  of  birds'  voices  showed  the  existence  of  an  aviary. 
From  some  unseen  corner  came  the  long-continued  cooing 
of  turtle  doves.  Nothing  met  eye  or  ear  but  what  was  pleas- 
ant, soothing,  and  harmonious.  The  decorations  of  the 
house  had  been  chosen  with  exquisite  skill,  and  one  of  its 
best-known  decorations  consisted  in  the  pictures  which  hung 
upon  the  walls.  They  were  of  some  value,  but  had  been 
chosen  with  less  regard  to  their  money  worth  than  to  some 
quality  of  taste,  colour,  light,  or  shade  which  had  made  them 
exactly  the  right  thing  to  be  hung  in  the  artistically-fur- 
nished house  of  the  well-known  landscape  painter,  James 
Lorimer,  A.  R.  A. 

On  this  dull  afternoon  in  November  the  house  was  very 
full  of  light  and  warmth.  The  master  had  given  orders  that 
daylight  should  be  excluded  as  soon  as  possible,  coloured 
lamps  lighted,  a  fountain  set  spraying  scented  water  among 
the  flowers.  His  tastes  were  sensuous:  he  hated  everything 
that  reminded  him  of  coldness,  bleakness,  barrenness;  and 
yet,  he  disliked  all  that  seemed  to  be  glaring  or  unsubdued. 
The  people  who  did  his  bidding  always  felt  that  they  walked 
upon  egg-shells.  With  a  man  whose  tastes  were  so  essen- 
tially delicate  and  refined,  yet,  in  a  sense,  so  florid,  it  was 
almost  impossible  sometimes  to  find  the  exact  medium  be- 
tween garish  splendour  and  barren  plainness. 

In  the  little  ante-room  which  lay  between  the  dining- 
room  and  the  conservatory,  on  the  ground  floor,  Alys  Lori- 
mer stood  and  considered  the  question  of  her  father's  tastes. 
They  had  never  come  very  prominently  before  her  until 
within  the  last  few  months.  She  had  been  at  school,  or 
with  friends  in  foreign  places.  It  was  only  since  her 
eighteenth  birthday  that  she  had  been  told  that  her  father 
wanted  her  at  home.  She  was  not  yet  nineteen,  and  she 
was  wondering  whether  she  liked  her  present  life  or  not. 

A  footstep  on  the  stair  that  led  from  the  drawing-room 


THE  SCENE  CHANGES.  19 

floor  to  the  conservatory— a  contrivance  of  Mr.  Lorimer's 
own — caused  her  to  look  up,  and  then  to  change  colour. 
Between  the  tall  palms  and  orange  plants  that  fringed  the 
steps  she  saw  the  alert  figure  and  brown  head  of  a  man  who 
had  been  visiting  her  father,  but  who,  in  spite  of  that  formal 
visit  to  Mr.  Lorimer,  was,  as  Alys  put  it  to  herself,  "  her  own 
particular  friend."  She  did  not  move,  but  a  slight  smile 
played  about  the  corners  of  her  lips  for  a  moment,  although, 
by  the  time  that  Edmund  Creighton  reached  her  side,  it 
had  faded  away,  and  left  her  fair  face  rather  unusually 
grave. 

"I  was  hoping  that  I  should  find  you  here,"  said  the 
young  man.  He  was  the  junior  partner  in  a  firm  of  solicit- 
ors, who  had  long  had  the  management  of  Mr.  Lorimer's 
business.  It  was  a  very  good  position  for  a  man  of  seven  or 
eight  and  twenty;  but  one,  the  world  agreed  to  add,  of 
which  Edmund  Creighton  was  fully  worthy.  He  was  hon- 
est and  he  was  clever— two  valuable  qualifications  for  a 
lawyer.  He  was  also  good-looking,  he  had  charming  man- 
ners, and  he  was  a  favourite  with  men  as  well  as  women. 
Perhaps,  we  should  rather  say.  with  men  more  than  with 
women,  as  a  general  rule,  for  women  were  apt  to  distinguish 
a  flavour  of  self-esteem  and  self-seeking  in  Mr.  Creighton's 
character,  too  subtle  to  be  discovered  by  the  less  analytic 
male. 

He  was  a  little  below  rather  than  above  the  usual  height, 
with  a  smooth,  cropped,  brown  head,  a  keen,  handsome  face, 
without  moustache  or  beard,  but  with  an  indication  of  the 
professional-looking  half-inch  of  whiskers,  which  he  after- 
wards cultivated  assiduously;  remarkably  well-kept  hands, 
and  scrupulously  neat  and  careful  dress.  His  eye  was  cool 
and  grey,  his  mouth  somewhat  thin,  but  his  smile  pleasant; 
and  he  had  the  advantage  of  a  very  sweet  and  well-trained 
voice.  As  he  looked  at  Alys,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
gentler  side  of  him  was  touched  at  the  sight  of  her. ' 

She  was  a  pleasant  sight,  as  she  stood  in  her  white  dress 
with  her  back  to  a  great  velvet  curtain  which  was  drawn 
over  the  window  at  that  end  of  the  room.     She  looked  al- 


20  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

most  like  a  very  delicately-tinted  statue,  thrown  into  strong 
relief  by  the  background  of  rich  drapery  against  which  she 
stood.  She  was  of  middle  height— for  a  woman :  nearly  as 
tall  in  reality  as  Edmund  Creighton ;  and  graceful  of  out- 
line. She  had  very  little  colour,  and  her  hair  was  of  the 
rare  pale  golden  that  looks  like  living  sunbeams.  Her  eyes 
were  also  of  an  unusual  tint:  the  deep  blue-grey  which  is 
sometimes  called  violet,  with  lashes  much  darker  than  her 
hair.  The  fine  sensitive  features  had  a  very  sweet  expres- 
sion, and  a  look  of  perfect  finish  and  completeness  pervaded 
her  whole  being,  from  the  topmost  wave  of  her  golden  hair 
to  the  tip  of  her  slender  shoe.  It  was  only  when  she  moved 
that  her  one  physical  defect  became  apparent.  Alys  Lori- 
mer  was  slightly  lame. 

It  was  a  very  slight  lameness — not  congenital,  but  the  re- 
sult of  an  accident  in  babyhood.  Her  nurse  had  let  her  fall 
out  of  her  arms,  and  had  not  confessed  the  fact  until  the 
child's  failing  health  proved  that  something  had  gone  amiss. 
The  mischief  was  palliated,  but  not  cured;  Alys  remained 
very  slightly  lame,  and  would  remain  so  until  her  dying 
day.  It  had  never  seemed  a  trouble  to  her  until  lately. 
Her  very  incapacity  had  all  her  life  been  made  an  excuse 
for  showering  caresses  upon  her.  She  had  been  petted,  in- 
dulged, flattered,  all  her  life.  Only  of  late — as  she  came  to 
womanhood— did  it  seem  to  dawn  on  her  that  there  could 
be  any  real  drawback  in  being  a  little  lame. 

"I  was  hoping  that  I  should  find  you  here,"  said  Mr. 
Creighton. 

"  Does  papa  want  me  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up. 

u  Mr.  Lorimer  did  not  ask  for  you.  On  the  contrary,  I 
believe  he  said  that  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  a 
cup  of  tea." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  I  had  told  them  to  bring  tea  here,  where 
we  can  see  the  flowers.  It  is  quite  warm  now  that  the  big 
furnace  is  lighted,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Mr.  Lorimer  knows  how  to  make  a  house  very  comfort- 
able," said  Edmund  Creighton,  glancing  around  him  with 
a  wistful  expression.     It  seemed  a  pity  at  that  moment  that 


THE  SCENE   CHANGES.  21 

he  knew — what  he  had  just  heard  from  Mr.  Lorimer's  own 
lips. 

Alys  moved  a  step  or  two  towards  a  lounging-chair  and 
sat  down,  her  slender  hands  crossed  before  her  in  her  lap. 
There  was  a  yellow  ribbon  round  her  slim  waist,  and  some 
loose  silver  bangles  slipped  over  her  wrists.  She  looked  so 
delicate,  so  lovely,  so  unlike  other  women,  Edmund  thought, 
that  a  strange  new  flood  of  love  and  pity  took  possession  of 
him  and  laid  its  weight  upon  his  tongue.  He  could  but  look 
and  long:  he  could  not  speak. 

Such  silence  was  unusual  in  Edmund  Oeighton,  and 
Alys  was  vaguely  surprised  by  it;  but  she  did  not  know  how 
he  had  been  shocked  and  amazed  that  night. 

Tea  came  in  presently,  and  with  the  tea  came  Mr.  Lori- 
mer's favourite  Angora  cat,  with  topaz  eyes,  and  Alys's  snow- 
white  Eskimo  dog.  Mr.  Lorimer's  fastidiousness  was  visible 
even  in  his  choice  of  pets  ;  they  had  all  to  be  well  bred  and 
beautiful  before  they  were  allowed  in  his  house.  He  knew 
of  but  one  principle  in  life — to  make  things  pleasant  to  ear 
and  eye,  body  and  mind ;  and  that,  in  his  opinion,  was  the 
whole  duty  of  man. 

"  Do  you  think  papa  better,  Mr.  Creighton  ? "  Alys  asked 
earnestly,  as  she  poured  out  the  tea. 

UA  good  deal  better.  Perhaps — a  little  trifle  nervous 
about  himself,  don't  you  think  ? "  Edmund  insinuated,  as  he 
took  his  cup  from  her  hand. 

Alys  looked  indignant.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Creighton  !  But  you 
don't  understand.     You  see  papa  is  so  very  sensitive." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Edmund,  meekly. 

"  And  he  feels  pain  so  much  more  than  other  people  do. 
His  organisation  is  so  delicate.     He  is  a  great  sufferer." 

She  sat  beside  the  tea-table,  looking  at  him  with  a  glance 
of  such  honest  reproach  and  surprise  in  her  great  blue  eyes 
that  Edmund  Creighton  felt  extremely  uncomfortable.  He 
was  out  of  charity  with  James  Lorimer  just  then.  James 
Lorimer  had  told  him  a  fact  which  was  causing  him  to  think 
of  that  gentleman  as  "  a  selfish  brute." 

"Quite  so.    I  am  very  sorry.     I  did  not  mean  that  he 


22  THE   MISTRESS  OF   QUEST. 

was  not  a  sufferer,"  said  young  Mr.  Creighton,  abjectly.  "  I 
hope  you  don't  think  I  would  speak  disrespectfully  of — of 
any  one  whom  you  care  for,  Miss  Lorimer." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  Alys,  smoothing  her  ruffled 
plumes.  "I  am  sure  you  would  not.  Oh,  don't  give  Fluffy 
cake,  please:  it  offends  him  so  !     Give  him  muffins." 

"  Pampered  animal !  " 

"  All  our  pets  are  pampered  a  little,  I  fancy,"  said  Alys, 
with  a  sweet  girlish  laugh.  "  But  it's  papa's  fault,  not  mine. 
He  cannot  bear  to  see  anybody  or  anything  about  him  un- 
comfortable." 

''Anybody— about  him!"  Edmund  repeated  to  himself, 
somewhat  bitterly.  "  Yes— so  long  as  the  person  was  in  his 
sight.  But  'out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,'  is  a  proverb  very 
particularly  true  with  Mr.  James  Lorimer,  I  think." 

But  it  would  not  have  been  safe  to  show  a  glimmer  of 
this  feeling  to  James  Lorimer 's  daughter.  He  went  on 
stroking  the  cat,  and  he  said  in  an  amiable  manner— u  Poor 
pussy,''  but  his  mind  was  in  a  tumult  of  anger  and  disap- 
pointment nevertheless. 

Would  he  have  been  human  had  he  felt  otherwise  ?  He 
loved  and  admired  Alys,  but  he  had  not  been  unmindful  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  supposed  to  be  an  heiress.  He  had 
been  brought  up  to  consider  the  importance  of  a  point  of 
that  kind;  and  he  had  always  meant  to  take  the  northern 
farmer's  somewhat  crude  advice,  and  even  if  he  did  not 
marry  for  money,  to  go  where  money  was.  Within  the 
last  hour  he  had  found  out  his  mistake.  Alys  would  scarce- 
ly have  a  penny,  roughly  speaking,  when  her  father  died. 
And  James  Lorimer  was  ill  of  a  mortal  disease. 

Alys  found  him  unusually  silent.  She  had  known  him 
for  a  good  many  years:  they  had  only  just  left  off  calling 
each  other  by  their  Christian  names  (propriety  in  the  shape 
of  a  maiden  aunt  had  demanded  this  sacrifice),  and  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  hearing  news  and  gossip  of  all  sorts  from 
him.  To  break  the  silence,  she  asked  after  his  sister.  Ed- 
mund sat  up,  and  his  face  broke  into  a  smile. 

"Marcia  has  got  her  way,"  he  said.     ''She  has  gone  to 


THE  SCENE  CHANGES.  23 

Girton  at  last.  I  hope  she  will  be  happy  there;  but  I  am 
afraid  she  is  not  the  girl  to  profit  by  that  kind  of  life." 

"  What  sort  of  girl,"  asked  Alys,  with  interest,  "  would 
profit  by  it?     Should  I?" 

'"Not  at  all,"  said  Edmund,  promptly. 

"  You  think  me  so  frivolous,"  said  Alys,  with  a  touch  of 
colour  coming  to  her  fair  cheeks,  and  a  slight  pout  to  the 
rose-tinted  lips. 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but — may  I  say  what  I  think  without 
offending  you  ? " 

"  Of  course  you  may.  I  do  not  know  why  we  should  be 
so  stiff  with  one  another,"  said  Alys,  innocently,  "  when  we 
have  been  friends  for  years  and  years  and  years." 

Edmund's  eyes  glowed.  He  wanted  to  press  his  lips  to 
her  slim  white  hand  in  gratitude  for  that  simple,  over-gra- 
cious speech ;  but  he  dared  not  do  it  yet.  All  that  he  dared 
do  he  did. 

''Thank  you — thank  you:  that  is  really  a  friendly 
speech,"  he  said,  warmly;  "and  may  I  say,  'Thank  you, 
Alys,'  just  for  once  ? " 

She  smiled ;  and  he  knew  that,  so  far  at  least,  he  had  not 
offended  her.     He  plunged  recklessly  into  speech. 

"I  am  old-fashioned  in  some  of  my  ideas  about  women. 
I  like  to  think  that  those  I  care  for  are  safe  at  home,  not 
needing  to  work  for  themselves,  lapped  in  comfort,  sheltered 
and  protected.  I  do  not  like  them  to  have  to  push  their 
way  alone  through  a  bustling,  noisy  world.  I  like  them  to 
have  a  nest  of  their  own,  and  to  stay  in  it.  Such  women  as 
you,  Alys,  are  not  fitted  to  cope  with  the  world  outside. 
Neither,  I  think,  is  Marcia,  who  has  always  been  a  pet  and 
plaything.     You  are  home- birds,  both  of  you." 

"That  is  a  very  nice  theory,"  said  Alys,  "for  the  girls 
who  have  homes,  like  Marcia  and  me;  but — suppose  we 
hadn't— suppose  we  were  quite  poor " 

"You  must  never  be  poor,"  said  Edmund,  with  what 
seemed  to  her  quite  unnecessary  violence. 

UI  hope  I  never  shall  be,"  said  Alys,  with  a  soft  little 
laugh.     "  I  should  not  like  to  be  poor." 


24:  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Edmund  felt  a  burning  sense  of  indignation  with  the 
man  upstairs.  If  that  man  died  while  Alys  was  unmarried, 
the  girl  would  be  poor — very  poor:  there  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  Of  course  there  was  the  alternative  that  James  Lori- 
mer  might  live  for  years  and  years  .  .  .  and  Alys  might 
marry  \erj  soon.  She  was  nineteen;  and  he  could  not 
fancy  that  a  man  would  look  at  her  and  not  love  her.  The 
little  imperfection  in  her  gait,  even,  had  a  charm  for  him. 
When  she  moved,  he  always  wanted  to  gather  her  up  in  his 
arms  and  carry  her  over  rough  places. 

The  great  Angora  had  jumped  up  to  Alys's  knee,  and  sat 
there  purring  softly,  while  Alys  offered  it  cream  out  of  a 
dainty  saucer  in  her  hand.  Edmund  stirred  and  looked  at 
her  undecidedly.  Should  he  speak  now  ?  should  he  not 
speak  ?  Did  he  love  her  well  enough  to  risk  and  overbear 
the  opposition  that  would  probably  be  made  by  his  family 
to  his  marriage  with  a  penniless  girl  ?  The  world  at  present 
thought  her  rich ;  but  the  secret  would  have  to  be  disclosed 
when  it  came  to  a  question  of  settlements. 

"  Marrying  a  lame  girl  without  a  penny !  "  that  was  how 
Edmund's  family  would  express  the  facts. 

He  looked  sideways  at  her,  and  thought  how  graceful, 
how  charming  she  was.  The  murmur  of  the  fountain 
seemed  to  make  it  more  difficult  to  speak.  The  attention 
that  she  gave  to  the  Angora  was  making  it  more  difficult 
still.  He  did  not  realise  that  the  true  difficulty  lay  in  his 
own  will— that  he  had  not  yet  perhaps  quite  made  up  his 
mind. 

But  he  hated  hesitation.  He  put  out  his  hand  a  little 
way  and  touched  hers :  she  took  the  touch  for  an  attempt  to 
caress  the  purring  beast  upon  her  knee.  Once  he  murmured 
"  Alys ! "  but  she  didn't  hear. 

Suddenly  a  bell  rang,  and  Alys  jumped  up  with  a  rather 
frightened  and  guilty  face.  "  It's  papa's  bell,"  she  said,  "and 
I  have  forgotten  to  take  him  his  tea.  I  am  so  sorry,  Edmund, 
but  I  must  go.  Good-bye.  You'll  come  some  other  day, 
will  you  not  ? " 

Edmund  was  obliged,  somewhat  unwillingly,  to  accept 


THE  DEAD   PAST.  25 

his  dismissal ;  but  he  was  a  little  consoled  by  hearing  her 
call  him — inadvertently,  even — by  his  Christian  name.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  haunted  all  the  evening  afterwards  by 
a  couplet  which  he  thought  singularly  inappropriate — 

He  that  will  not  when  he  may, 
When  he  will,  he  shall  have  nay. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DEAD  PAST. 

Alys  flew  up  to  her  father's  room.  Something  in  the 
sharpness  of  his  ring  told  her  that  he  was  annoyed:  he  was 
not  a  man  who  liked  to  be  neglected,  and  she  was  distinctly 
conscious  of  having  neglected  him.  It  was  with  some 
timidity  that  she  knocked  and  entered  at  his  door. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  Mr.  Lorimer's  room  was 
the  best  room  in  the  house.  He  did  not  profess  to  entertain, 
and,  until  lately,  there  had  been  no  lady  of  the  house  to  be 
consulted ;  so  that  he  was  free  to  appropriate  to  his  own  use 
the  big  front  drawing-room,  with  its  three  long  windows 
looking  out  upon  the  square,  and  the  adjoining  apartment 
as  a  dressing-room.  A  much  smaller  room  on  the  ground 
floor  served  Alys  as  a  place  in  wdiich  to  receive  her  visitors; 
Mr.  Lorimer's  friends  were  content  with  the  dining  and 
smoking-room  s. 

Alys  was  well  accustomed  to  the  kind  of  luxuries  with 
which  her  father  liked  to  surround  himself ;  but  with  some 
of  his  tastes  she  herself  did  not  sympathise.  His  love  of 
strong,  sweet  odours  was  an  offence  to  her.  When  she  came 
into  his  room  she  almost  recoiled — so  overpowering  were 
the  mingled  perfumes  wThich  met  her  nostrils.  Oriental  in- 
cense, sandal-wood,  a  scented  cigarette,  bouquets  of  hothouse 
flowers,  some  growing  hyacinths  in  pots — all  these  contrib- 
uted their  odours  with  a  curiously  stifling  effect. 

The  girl  did  not  know,  what  many  of  her  father's  friends 


26  TIIE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

suspected,  that  these  perfumes  were  designed  to  cover  the 
odour  of  drugs — and  especially  of  one  or  two  narcotics  of 
Eastern  origin,  with  a  peculiarly  penetrating  odour,  to  the 
use  of  which  James  Lorimer  was  given.  He  had  begun  to 
take  these  in  order  to  alleviate  pain :  he  continued  the  use 
of  them  as  a  habit  because  he  liked  it.  But  Alys  knew 
nothing  of  all  this. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? "  said  her  father,  with  unusual 
sharpness.  "  You  generally  come  to  me  at  four;  I  have  had 
to  wait." 

He  laid  an  emphasis  of  injured  majesty  upon  the  last 
word  of  his  speech. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  papa,"  said  Alys,  meekly.  "Mr. 
Oeighton  stayed  a  little  while,  and  I  was  giving  him  tea." 

"  Young  Edmund  Creighton,  you  mean— not  Mr.  Oeigh- 
ton," said  her  father,  testily.  "  Do  give  people  their  proper 
names.  Well,  I  don't  object  to  your  being  civil  to  young 
Creighton:  he  is  useful,  and  he  hasn't  bad  manners." 

"  I  think  he  is  very  kind  and  nice,"  said  Alys,  flushing  a 
little. 

Her  father  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment,  as  if 
struck  by  her  tone. 

"  You  like  him,  do  you  ?    Ah ! " 

Alys  did  not  know  in  the  least  what  he  meant,  and  did 
not  trouble  to  inquire.  Mr.  Lorimer  seldom  made  a  secret 
of  what  was  passing  through  his  mind,  and  his  daughter  did 
not  always  like  what  he  revealed  to  her.  Not  that  there  was 
anything  actively  bad  or  harmful  in  the  things  he  said ;  but 
they  were  sometimes  more  cynical  or  more  ill-natured  than 
she  cared  to  hear. 

"It  would  not  be  a  bad  thing,"  the  father  went  on,  with 
a  slight  smile  nickering  over  his  pale  face.  "  You  might  do 
worse,  child.  I  am  half  sorry  I  told  him  what  I  did:  I  may 
have  spoiled  your  market— which  is  the  last  thing  I  wished 
to  do." 

"  Papa,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Alys,  with 
glowing  cheeks. 

He  laughed.     "  Don't  you,  my  dear  ?    Think  over  it,  and 


THE  DEAD  PAST.  27 

you  will  see  the  sense  of  what  I  say.  And  now  you  can  read 
to  me :  there  is  a  new  book  of  Pater's  just  come  from  the 
library  which  we  shall  both  enjoy. ". 

Alys  did  not  enjoy  her  reading  so  much  as  Mr.  Lorimer 
had  expected.  She  had  been  trained  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  books — chiefly  on  art  and  literature — that  her  father 
liked ;  but  his  words  about  Edmund  Creighton  disturbed  her 
attention.  Did  he  mean — was  it  possible — that  Edmund  had 
shown  any  special  feeling  about  her  ?  Now  she  thought  of 
it,  she  remembered  certain  words  and  looks  which  had  been 
inexplicable  to  her  at  the  time;  they  had  meant,  perhaps, 
more  than  she  knew.  But  why,  then — the  thought  would 
recur  again  and  again — why,  then,  had  he  not  said  a  little 
more  ?  Why  had  he  not  made  it  a  little  plainer — even  that 
very  afternoon  ? 

She  read  on,  more  monotonously  than  usual,  while  her 
father  listened  and  watched  her,  and  thought  his  own  cyn- 
ical thoughts. 

He  was  not  yet  fifty,  and  he  was  a  very  distinguished- 
looking  man.  Years  of  delicate  health,  and  perhaps  of  un- 
wholesome modes  of  life,  had  sharpened  his  features  and 
whitened  his  skin,  giving  to  his  face  the  opaque  tints  of  old 
ivory,  against  which  the  colour  of  his  dark  hair  and  fine 
eyes  seemed  almost  unnaturally  pronounced.  He  wore  a 
dressing-gown,  for  he  was  only  just  recovering  from  one  of 
his  "  attacks  " — mysterious  attacks  of  illness  for  which  Alys 
knew  no  name — nevertheless,  he  managed  to  preserve  an  air 
of  fastidious  neatness  and  refinement  which  a  man  does  not 
always  put  on  with  a  peignoir.  His  left  hand,  long,  white, 
and  fine',  was  adorned  with  a  heavy  and  valuable  signet- 
ring. 

"  Put  down  the  book,  Alys,1'  he  said  at  last,  in  a  some- 
what harsh  and  grating  voice.     "  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Alys  laid  the  volume  on  the  table  beside  her,  and  glanced 
up  in  surprise.  She  was  used  to  her  father's  caprices ;  but 
conversation  with  herself  was  not  one  of  them.  He  was 
fond  of  her ;  but  he  treated  her  like  a  little  girl. 

"  How  old  are  you  ? "  he  proceeded. 


28  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"Nineteen,  papa." 

"  Quite  a  woman,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  with  his  flickering 
smile,  "  and  ready,  no  doubt,  to  think  yourself  wiser  than 
your  elders " 

"  Oh,  no,  papa!  "  ejaculated  the  girl. 

"  You  need  not  interrupt  me :  I  know  what  girls  are  like. 
I  have  been  thinking  for  some  time  that  I  would  talk  to  you 
a  little  about  your  future,  Alys— and  perhaps  about  my 
past " 

He  paused  a  little  doubtfully.  Alys  raised  her  head  with 
an  eager  look. 

"Papa,  I  have  so  often  wanted  to  ask  you  about  my 
mother.     I  can  just  remember  her." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  with  a  shadow  suddenly 
falling  across  his  face,  uyou  remember  a  very  beautiful 
woman." 

"  Yes,  I  know  she  was  beautiful.  I  wish  I  had  some  like- 
ness—some portrait— of  her,  papa.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  perhaps  you  had  one  yourself " 

"  I  used  to  sketch  in  the  days  when  she  was  living,"  said 
her  father,  in  a  dreamy  tone.  "  Yes,  I  used  to  paint  then— 
at  first.  Afterwards  I  gave  it  up— or  Art  gave  me  up— I 
don't  quite  know  which.  I  have  not  painted  anything  for 
fifteen  years." 

"I  suppose  you  did  not  care  to  paint  after  mamma's 
death,"  said  Alys,  drawing  a  little  nearer  to  him.  She  was 
glad  to  think  that  he  had  loved  her  mother  so  well. 

James  Lorimer  uttered  a  low,  sardonic  laugh.  "I'm 
afraid  that's  not  quite  the  right  explanation,"  he  answered. 
"  I  left  off  painting  as  soon  as  I  could  afford  to  do  without 
it — as  soon,  in  fact,  as  your  mother's  money  was  at  my  dis- 
posal." 

Alys  shrank  back.  His  words  sounded  heartless  :  she 
did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  You  are  aware,  I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  leaning  back 
in  the  corner  of  his  luxurious  chair,  and  watching  her  trou- 
bled face,  "  that  all  the  money  I  possess— the  money  that 
furnished  this  house,  that  enables  us  to  live  in  comparative 


THE   DEAD  PAST.  29 

comfort — that  provides  us  with  our  bread  and  butter — came 
to  me  from  your  mother  ? " 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"It  did.  Your  mother  was  something  of  an  heiress — 
in  a  small  way :  oh,  only  in  a  small  way,  my  dear.  All 
that  I  had  when  I  married  her  was  a  hundred  and  fifty 
a  year,  which  has  generally  been  devoted  to  your  main- 
tenance and  education.  The  rest  was  left  to  me — uncon- 
ditionally— by  my  wife.  I  was  to  do  what  I  pleased  with 
it — especially  in  regard  to  my  impaired  health.  You  under- 
stand, Alys  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa.  But  " — she  lifted  a  lovely,  puzzled  face 
to  his — "  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  tell  me  all  this. 
I  do  not  need  to  know." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  rather  unexpectedly 
acquiescing.  "  There  is  no  particular  reason  why  you  should 
know — just  yet.  Of  course,  you  will  have  to  hear  about  my 
affairs,  when" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "  when  I  come 
to  die." 

"  Please,  please,  papa,  do  not  talk  in  that  way.  There 
will    be    many,    many    years    before    we    need    think    or 


"  Will  there  ?  How  are  we  to  know  that  ?  Pooh!  You 
are  a  baby,  Alys,  in  spite  of  your  nineteen  years.  Be  sen- 
sible, and  look  the  matter  in  the  face." 

"I  would  rather  not,  papa,  dear." 

Mr.  Lorimer  laughed.  This  affectionate  dislike  to  the 
thought  of  his  death  pleased  him:  he  read  in  it  the  devo- 
tion which  the  mother  of  Alys  had  borne  to  him,  which 
Alys  herself  would  always  bear.  He  was  used  to  the 
devotion  of  women ;  he  thought  it  a  beautiful  and  touch- 
ing thing. 

"  We  need  not  dwell  on  the  painful  part  of  the  topic,"  he 
said,  lightly.  "  But,  you  know,  my  dear  Alys,  that  I  am  in- 
valid— that  life  is  uncertain — that  it  is  always  well  to  look 
forward  a  little  and  forecast  difficulties.  If  anything  hap- 
pened to  me — curious  phrase,  is  it  not  ? — you  would  be  in  a 
singularly  lonely  position,  because  of  your  dearth  of  rela- 
3 


30  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

tives — female  relatives  especially.  I  should  be  extremely 
pleased,  Alys,  if  I  thought  I  should  see  you  settled  in  life — 
married,  I  mean,  of  course— before  I  had  to  go." 

There  was  so  much  more  gravity  than  usual  in  his  tones 
that  Alys  was  impressed,  and  did  not  smile  at  the  desire  so 
plainly  and  simply  made  known  to  her.  She  felt  that  her 
father  was  in  earnest,  was  really  and  truly  anxious  for  her 
future,  and  she  did  not  this  time  try  to  silence  him.  She 
put  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  father's  chair,  and  was 
gratified  when  he  patted  it. 

"I  will  not  mention  any  names,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer. 
"  That  might  be  premature.  All  that  I  want  you  to  do  is  to 
remember  that  I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  well  married, 
Alys ;  and  if  an  opportunity  of  any  such  marriage  should 
occur — well,  you  had  better  think  of  it." 

Alys  murmured  an  assent,  and  drew  a  sigh  meanwhile. 
She  had  her  girlish  dreams  of  a  lover  that  should  come  some 
day;  and  she  thought  that  her  father's  way  of  regarding 
marriage  as  a  provision  for  the  future  was  very  prosaic. 
She  was  relieved  when  he  changed  the  subject. 

u  I  think  I  wanted  to  speak  about  the  past  rather  than 
the  future,"  he  said,  with  an  odd  little  grimace.  "  You  asked 
if  I  had  a  picture  of  your  mother.  I  can  show  you  a  sketch 
of  her  if  you  give  me  the  old  black  portfolio  that  stands  in 
the  corner  over  there." 

Alys  fetched  the  portfolio— an  exceedingly  old  and 
shabby  one,  she  noticed— and  placed  it  on  a  small  table 
before  him.  He  opened  it  in  a  musing,  lingering  way,  and 
began  to  turn  over  the  sketches  which  it  contained,  one  by 
one. 

"I  did  not  often  do  figures,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  low 
tone,  "  but  I  could  not  resist  this  attempt  at  your  mother's 
face.  It  is  a  mere  sketch,  but  I  think  it  was  like  her  at  the 
time." 

Alys  took  the  sheet  of  paper  he  held  out  to  her,  and 
looked  at  it  in  reverent  silence.  It  was,  as  he  had  said,  a 
mere  water-colour  sketch,  representing  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful woman,  with  a  sweet  fair  face  and  golden  hair,  very  like 


THE   DEAD  PAST.  31 

her  daughter's.  Mr.  Lorimer  looked  from  the  picture  to  the 
living  girl,  and  smiled  almost  wistfully. 

u  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  like  her "  was  what  he 

said. 

Then  he  went  on  turning  over  the  other  sketches,  with  a 
rather  unsteady  hand. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  hesitated,  then  pushed  another  pic- 
ture towards  his  daughter. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  what  a  lovely  creature  !  "  Alys  cried. 

It  represented  a  girl  of  eighteen,  with  a  peach-like  bloom, 
great  liquid  dark  eyes  full  of  fire  and  pathos,  waving  dusky 
hair,  and  features  of  exquisite  refinement  and  delicacy.  "  Is 
it  a  portrait  ? "  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  portrait.  I  wanted  you  to  see  it.  That  was  my 
first  wife,  Alys.  I  was  married  before  I  met  your  mother. 
You  have  never  known  that  fact  before." 

He  spoke  in  a  studiously  matter-of-fact  tone,  and  avoided 
her  startled  gaze.  The  girl  gave  a  sort  of  gasp  before  she 
spoke  again. 

"  Oh,  papa  !  "  she  cried. 

u  There  is  nothing  to  be  so  very  much  surprised  at,  is 
there  ? "  he  said,  drily.  "  Many  men  have  been  married 
twice.  Now,  Alys,  have  the  goodness  not  to  cry,  for  I  wish 
to  give  you  another  piece  of  information,  and  you  had  bet- 
ter reserve  your  tears  for  that." 

"  What  is  it,  papa  ? "  said  Alys,  faintly.  The  tears  had 
come  from  a  sudden  sense  of  his  want  of  confidence  in  her, 
but  she  winked  them  hurriedly  away.  Mr.  Lorimer  looked 
at  her  with  something  very  like  malicious  pleasure  in  her 
distress. 

"  How  would  you  like  an  elder  sister,  my  dear  ?  Yes, 
there  was  a  child — a  girl  ;  the  mother  died  when  she  was 
born."  A  twitch  passed  over  his  pale,  impassive  face. 
"  The  mother  died — the  child  lived:  my  Lisa's  life  was  sac- 
rificed for  that  baby's  sake.  You  can't  wonder  if  I  never 
cared  to  see  much  of  the  child  again." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Alys,  turning  pale  with  ex- 


32  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

citement,  "  that  the  little  girl  lived— is  living  still  ?  Where 
is  she  ?  Oh,  papa,  and  you  have  never  let  me  know  her  all 
these  years." 

"  It  would  have  been  no  pleasure  to  you  to  know  her," 
said  Mr.  Lorimer,  sharply.  "  When  I  last  saw  her,  I  was 
utterly  horrified.  Coarse,  common,  provincial  to  the  last 
degree.     Not  a  sister  to  be  proud  of,  my  dear  child." 

"  But  whose  fault  is  it  that  she  is  common  and  coarse  ? " 
said  Alys,  turning  her  clear  eyes  upon  him.  "Where  has 
she  been  brought  up  ? " 

"In  the  country — with  her  mother's  relatives.  I  have 
not  seen  her  since  she  was  nine  years  old." 

"  And  now — she  is " 

"  About  three-and- twenty.  You  need  not  concern  your- 
self, my  dear.  She  has  been  brought  up  as  her  mother  was 
brought  up,  and  is,  no  doubt,  perfectly  happy." 

"  But  you  mean  now  to  have  her  here  ? — you  mean  to  be 
kind  and  good  to  her  now  at  least,  papa  ? "  There  was  an 
unconscious  reproach  in  the  girl's  eager  voice. 

Mr.  Lorimer  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
don't  know  that  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  her,"  he 
said.  UI  have  not  told  you  with  any  idea  of  bringing 
her  out  of  her  sphere,  or  altering  matters  in  any  way, 
Alys.  I  simply  thought  it  might  be  well  for  you  to  know 
the  facts." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  them  years  ago,"  said  Alys,  in  a 
low,  shaken  voice. 

"  Women  are  queer  creatures,"  said  Mr.  Lorimer,  whim- 
sically. "I  expected  you  to  fly  into  a  rage,  and  to  cry  your 
eyes  out  with  jealousy." 

"  Papa,  you  don't  mean  it,  surely !    Think  what  a  pleas- 
ure it  would  have  been  to  me  to  have  a  sister  all  this  time  1 
You  will  let  me  know  her  now  ?    What  is  her  name  ? " 
"Elizabeth." 

"And  I  may  write  to  her  ?  You  will  give  me  her  ad- 
dress ? " 

Mr.  Lorimer  mused.  "To-morrow,  perhaps,"  he  said. 
"  Put  the  portfolio  away,  Alys.     Do  you  know— for  the  first 


ALONE  IN  THE   WORLD.  33 

time — you  make  me  think  that  my  plan — the  plan  of  all 
these  years— has  been  a  little  bit  of  a  mistake  ? " 

"  You  will  undo  the  mistake  ?  You  will  give  me  a 
sister  ? "  Alys  pleaded,  laying  her  hand  softly  on  his 
arm. 

"To-morrow,  child,  to-morrow." 

But  that  morrow  never  came. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  would  you  go  round  to  Croyland 
Square  as  soon  as  possible  ?  There  is  a  messenger  from 
Miss  Lorimer,  and  something  seems  to  have  happened — Mr. 
Lorimer's  either  died  sudden  or  took  very  ill,  I  can't  tell 
which." 

The  speaker  was  an  old  and  privileged  servant  of  the 
Creighton  family :  once  a  nurse,  and  now  a  sort  of  house- 
keeper. She  did  not  usually  intrude  upon  the  family  at 
meal  time ;  but  breakfast  was  practically  over,  although  Mr. 
Creighton  still  sat  over  his  newspaper,  and  his  wife  and 
children  had  not  left  the  room.  The  man  who  waited  at 
table  was  new  to  his  place,  and  had  hesitated  to  bring  the 
message;  so  Mrs.  Moss,  who  knew  all  about  the  Lorimers, 
took  it  upon  herself  to  trot  in  and  deliver  it. 

Mr.  Creighton,  a  tall  spare  man,  with  a  shrewd  face, 
keen  eyes,  dark  hair  and  whiskers,  and  a  peculiarly  alert 
manner,  threw  down  his  newspaper,  and  looked  round. 

"  What's  that,  Moss  ?  Come  in ;  what  does  the  messenger 
say?" 

Mrs.  Moss,  a  round  little  dumpling  of  a  woman,  with  a 
rosy  face  and  grey  curls,  advanced  a  couple  of  paces  into  the 
room. 

"  The  girl's  crying,  so  that  I  couldn't  get  much  out  of 
her,"  she  said,  confidentially.     "  Perhaps  if  you  would  see 


34:  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

her  yourself,  sir,  you'd  make  her  speak  up.  But  I'm  afraid 
the  poor  gentleman's  gone." 

Edmund  Creighton  and  his  father  looked  at  one  another. 
The  younger  man  had  turned  rather  pale,  and  his  lips  were 
tightly  compressed.  Mr.  Creighton  the  elder  lifted  his  eye- 
brows, and  also  seemed  disturbed. 

"I  hope  not— I  hope  not,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  with  some 
warmth  of  manner.     "  Let  me  see  the  girl." 

He  went  out  into  the  hall  and  interviewed  the  weeping 
maid-servant;  then  returned  to  the  dining-room  to  gulp 
down  his  last  half  cup  of  coffee,  and  give  information  to  his 
family. 

u  It's  quite  true,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Lorimer  was  found  dead 
in  his  bed  this  morning,  when  the  servant  went  in  with  his 
chocolate.     Heart  disease,  I  suppose." 

"  Or  an  overdose  of  chloral,"  thought  Edmund  to  him- 
self.    But  he  did  not  put  his  suspicion  into  words. 

"  That  poor  girl  of  his  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Creighton,  a 
large,  fashionably-dressed  lady,  with  a  pleasant  voice  and 
superficially  good-humoured  smile.  "  What  will  she  do  ? 
You  had  better  find  out,  John,  whether  we  can  do  anything 
for  her." 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  things  you  can  do  for  her, 
no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Creighton,  a  little  drily.  "I  will  tell 
her  you  will  look  in  during  the  day — or  one  of  the 
girls." 

"  Had  we  not  better  fetch  her  here  ? "  said  Lydia,  who 
was  the  eldest  daughter,  a  keen-faced  girl,  more  like  her 
brother  than  any  other  member  of  the  family.  She  looked 
at  Edmund  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  would  be  a  very  g-ood  thing,  I  think,"  said  Edmund, 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  with  his  eyes  on  the  table-cloth. 
His  father  glanced  at  him,  nodded,  and  went  out. 

To  Lydia  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  symptoms  of  some 
secret  understanding  between  father  and  son.  "Did  you 
expect  this  ? "  she  asked  her  brother,  suddenly. 

"Expect  Mr.  Lorimer's  death  ?     Certainly  not." 

"  He  was  very  wealthy,   was  he  not  ? "  remarked  Mrs. 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD.  35 

Creighton,  meditatively.     "I  suppose  the  girl  will  have 
everything." 

Edmund  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  "Like  all  the 
rest  of  the  world,  we  shall  know  in  time,"  he  said. 

"  He  lived  in  very  good  style,"  persisted  Mrs.  Creighton, 
"  although  he  was  too  much  of  an  invalid  to  entertain.  He 
must  have  had  a  good  income." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  he  had  a  good  income,"  said  Edmund,  in 
a  perfectly  non  committal  tone.  He  got  up  from  the  table 
then,  and  went  away. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Lydia,  quietly,  "  there  is  something  wrong 
about  the  Lorimers  and  their  money." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?    Who  said  so  ? " 

"  No  one  has  said  so  ;  but  I  can  see  it  by  the  way  Edmund 
and  papa  behave.  It  would  not  surprise  me  at  all  to  find 
that  Alys  Lorimer  has  nothing— absolutely  nothing." 

"Nonsense,  Lydia  !  A  fortune  cannot  dissolve  into  thin 
air.  Edmund  said  Mr.  Lorimer  had  a  good  income  :  where 
will  that  income  go  if  not  to  his  only  daughter  ? " 

"Perhaps  it  was  a  pension  or  something,"  said  Lydia, 
vaguely. 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  in  rather  a 
sharper  tone  than  would  have  been  expected  from  a  woman 
who  looked  so  good-tempered;  "  how  could  any  pension  in 
the  world  keep  up  that  house  in  the  way  Mr.  Lorimer  kept 
it  up  ?  He  must  have  spent  a  fortune  on  plants  and  flowers 
alone.  Perhaps  he  has  left  large  sums  to  charities,  and  Alys 
will  not  get  it  at  all.  I  shall  be  sorry  for  that,  for  it  would 
be  greatly  to  Edmund's  advantage  if  he  married  a  rich  wife." 

"  That  is  always  the  way  people  talk,"  said  a  new  voice 
from  behind  a  window-curtain,  where  the  youngest  of  the 
family  had  ensconced  herself  during  the  conversation,  with- 
out hitherto  proffering  a  word.  She  put  out  a  curly,  dark 
head  now,  and  showed  a  round,  piquante,  mocking  little  face. 
"  As  if  riches  were  everything  !  As  if  it  were  the  highest 
ideal  in  the  world  to  be  wealthy  !  As  if  Edmund  would  be 
committing  a  crime  if  he  married  a  girl  who  was  poor." 
"  You  talk  nonsense,  Julian,  and  impertinent  nonsense 


36  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

too,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  severely.  "  Why  are  you  here  at 
all  ?    It  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  the  schoolroom." 

Juliana — more  usually  known  as  Julian — came  out  of 
her  nook  behind  the  window-curtain,  and  shook  her  curly 
mane  of  dark  chestnut-coloured  hair.  She  had  hazel  eyes, 
which  could  glow  like  flame  when  she  was  angry  or  ex- 
cited ;  pretty  features,  rather  too  pale  ;  and  a  trim  little 
figure  which  looked  childish  in  its  short  serge  frock  and 
school  apron. 

"  Miss  Smith  isn't  coming  to-day :  I  have  a  holiday,"  she 
said.  "  Can  I  go  and  tell  Moss  that  Alys  Lorimer  is  coming, 
and  help  her  to  get  the  room  ready  ? " 

"  We  do  not  know  that  Miss  Lorimer  is  coming  yet,"  said 
Mrs.  Creighton,  who  was  displeased. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  As  long  as  you  thought  her  rich,  you 
were  ready  enough  for  her  to  come  !  Now,  w^hen  it  is  sug- 
gested she  may  he  poor " 

"  That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  Really,  Ju- 
lian, you  are  insufferable.  Go  away  and  practise,  or  employ 
yourself  in  some  suitable  way,  and  do  not  listen  to  the  con- 
versation of  your  elders.  It  is  evident  that  little  girls  can- 
not understand  it." 

Julian  retreated,  controlling  her  unruly  tongue  with  dif- 
ficulty. She  was  something  of  an  enfant  terrible,  this  curly- 
haired  girl  of  sixteen ;  for  she  was  possessed  with  a  hatred 
of  conventionalities  which  she  did  not  know  how  to  sup- 
press; and,  good-natured  on  the  whole  as  Mrs.  Creighton 
was,  she  was  tied  and  bound  by  the  laws  and  customs  which 
Julian  abhorred,  so  that  mother  and  daughter  were  apt  some- 
times to  come  into  collision. 

The  Creightons  were  not  a  very  united  family.  Mrs. 
Creighton  and  Lydia  held  together  a  good  deal,  went  out, 
paid  calls,  sat  and  sewed  in  each  other's  society.  Mr. 
Creighton  was  too  busy  to  see  much  of  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters; but  he  had  some  intercourse  with  his  son.  The  second 
girl,  Marcia,  had  broken  loose  from  the  home  moorings  and 
gone  to  Girton  ;  but  this  was  rather  a  fashionable  thing  to 
do,  and  her  mother  did  not  mind  it.     Juliana  was  the  trial 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD.  37 

of  the  family.  She  was  always  in  the  way.  She  was 
brusque  and  impertinent:  she  was  not  a  beauty,  although 
fairly  good-looking ;  she  was  not  even  to  be  called  intellect- 
ual, although  clever  in  her  way.  She  was  always,  as  she 
expressed  it,  odd  man  out.  She  got  on  with  Edmund  better 
than  with  any  one  else,  for  he  was  inclined  to  make  a  pet  of 
her;  but  even  with  him  she  had  occasional  disputes,  and  he 
would  sometimes  remark  that  he  thought  she  ought  to  be 
sent  to  school. 

Her  speech  on  behalf  of  poverty  had  so  much  ruffled 
Mrs.  Creighton  that  at  first  she  resolved  not  to  ask  Alys 
Lorimer  to  her  house  at  all;  but  the  conventional  good-na- 
ture of  the  woman  won  the  day  over  her  annoyance,  and 
she  gave  orders  to  Mrs.  Moss  to  prepare  a  room.  "  Though 
it  will  be  very  awkward,"  she  said  privately  to  Lydia,  aif 
anything  has  gone  wrong  about  the  money,  for,  of  course, 
we  cannot  have  our  spare  rooms  taken  up  for  ever  by  a  pen- 
niless girl." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Creighton  had  proceeded  to  the  house 
in  Croyland  Square,  lately  inhabited  by  Mr.  Lorimer.  The 
story  that  he  had  heard  was  quite  true.  After  his  conversa- 
tion with  Alys  on  the  previous  evening,  Mr.  Lorimer  had 
dined  in  his  room  and  retired  to  his  bed  at  an  early  hour. 
The  valet  said  that  his  master  had  seemed  tired  and  de- 
pressed, but  not  ill.  Nothing  more  had  been  seen  or  heard 
of  him  until  morning,  when  he  was  found  lying  quietly,  as 
if  asleep  upon  his  pillows,  but  cold  in  the  sleep  of  death. 
He  must  have  been  dead  some  hours  when  he  was  found. 

The  doctor  had  been  and  gone.  He  had  told  Alys  gently 
and  kindly,  what  most  of  her  friends  already  knew,  that  Mr. 
Lorimer  had  for  years  suffered  from  an  incurable  form  of 
heart  disease,  and  that  a  sudden  death  of  this  kind  wras  not 
wholly  unexpected.  "  There  will  have  to  be  an  inquest,  but 
merely  a  formal  one,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  doubt  about 
the  cause  of  death." 

Mr.  Creighton  had  been  Mr.  Lorimer's  man  of  business, 
as  well  as  an  old  friend ;  and  it  was  natural,  therefore,  that 
Alys  should  send  for  him.     He  was  very  kind  to  her,  very 


38  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

soothing  in  manner— perhaps  a  little  too  pitying  in  tone; 
but  Alys  was  used  to  him,  and  did  not  mind  being  pitied. 
She  was  utterly  overpowered  by  the  shock  of  her  father's 
death,  and  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  accept  Mr.  Creighton's  in- 
vitation to  stay  at  his  house. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  go  away :  I  should  feel  as  if  I  were 
deserting  him"  she  said. 

"  But,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  would  not  think  of  stay- 
ing here,  with  nobody  but  the  servants  in  the  house.  It 
would  be  most  unbecoming— most  improper." 

"  Could  not  Julian  come  and  stay  with  me  ? "  said  Alys, 
and  cried  a  little  when  she  was  told  that  Julian  was  much 
too  young  to  be  allowed  to  stay  with  her  in  the  house  of  the 
dead.     But  she  would  not  yield. 

u  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  go  away,"  she  said.  "  There 
are  a  great  many  things  to  look  after.  Poor  papa  would 
not  have  liked  me  to  leave  everything  to  the  servants. 
There  are  his  birds— and  the  animals,  you  know,  Mr.  Creigh- 
ton.     I  could  not  bear  them  to  be  neglected  now." 

"  They  would  not  be  neglected.  They  are  too  valuable 
for  that.  We  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  homes  for 
them,"  said  the  solicitor,  incautiously.  He  was  sorry  he 
had  said  it  next  moment,  for  a  cry  of  indignation  broke  from 
the  girl's  quivering  lips. 

"  We  shall  not  want  to  find  homes  for  them.  They  will 
stay  here  with  me,  of  course.  Do  you  think  I  shall  want  to 
part  with  any  of  them  ? "  said  Alys,  turning  her  amazed,  in- 
dignant eyes  upon  him.  "I  shall  keep  them  always — all 
their  lives— if  only  for  his  sake." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course — as  long  as  it  is  convenient,  of 
course,"  murmured  Mr.  Creighton,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
said.  He  could  not  enter  upon  business  matters  on  the  very 
day  of  her  father's  death.  He  took  his  leave  as  kindly  as 
possible,  but  he  was  glad  to  get  away;  and  for  some  reason 
or  other,  Alys  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  him. 

Later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Creighton  and  Lyclia  swooped  down 
upon  her,  and  did  their  best  to  convince  her  that  she  had 
better  spend  the  next  few  days  with  them.     But  Alys  would 


ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD.  39 

not  be  persuaded,  and  Mrs.  Creighton  bore  a  slight  grudge 
against  her  in  consequence. 

"  She  seems  to  have  been  very  devoted  to  her  father," 
said  that  lady,  in  a  tone  of  pique  to  her  husband. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say.  He  was  a  pleasant  sort  of  man,  and 
he  certainly  surrounded  her  with  every  luxury,  poor  girl.1' 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  poor '  ? " 

"  She  is  not  so  well  off  as  she  thinks  she  is.  I  cannot 
say  more  at  present,  Louisa.  But  you  might  give  her  a 
hint  not  to  be  too  extravagant— about  her  mourning  and 
all  those  things." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  say  anything  if  you  tell  me  no 
more." 

u  I  must  speak  to  her  before  I  speak  to  any  one  else," 
said  Mr.  Creighton,  stolidly,  u  and  I  shall  not  speak  until 
after  the  funeral." 

His  refusal  to  give  exact  information  offended  Mrs. 
Creighton  a  little,  and  she  declined,  therefore,  to  offer  Alys 
a  hint  of  any  kind  about  her  expenditure.  Fortunately,  the 
girl  was  not  naturally  extravagant,  and  her  orders  were  all 
moderate,  as  Mr.  Creighton  found  when  he  came  to  look 
over  the  bills. 

The  funeral  was  a  simple  one,  according  to  James  Lori- 
mer's  own  instructions  found  in  his  desk.  And  when  it 
was  over.  Mr.  Creighton  came  back  to  the  house  in  Croy- 
land  Square,  and  asked  to  be  allowed  the  pleasure  of  a  little 
conversation  with  her. 

He  was  glad  to  see  that,  although  pale,  she  was  very 
composed.  Her  father's  death  had  been  a  great  shock  to 
her,  but  it  was  not  what  the  death  of  a  more  deeply  loving 
parent  might  have  been.  She  was  quite  able  to  hear  what 
he  had  to  say.  '*  And  I  have  something  to  say  too,"  she 
told  him,  as  they  seated  themselves  in  the  dining-room. 

uMy  business  had,  perhaps,  better  come  first,"  said  Mr. 
Creighton,  pleasantly.     "  It  is  possible,  of  course,  that  you 
may  know  what  I  am  going  to  say.    Did  your  father  ever 
speak  to  you  about  his  pecuniary  affairs  ? " 
"Never." 


40  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  You  will  be  unprepared,  I  fear, 
for  the  nature  of  my  communication.  You  have  thought,  I 
dare  say,  my  dear  Miss  Lorimer,  that  your  father  was  a 
wealthy  man,  and  that  you  would  inherit  his  wealth  ? " 

"Ye-es,"  said  Alys,  hesitatingly;  "but  from  something 
he  said  to  me  on  the  night  before — before  he  died,  I  can 
guess  that  there  is  a — a  sort  of  complication." 

"Complication!  No;  there  is  nothing  of  that  kind," 
said  Mr.  Creighton,  staring  at  her.  "  It  is  all  very  simple, 
unfortunately." 

"I  meant,"  said  Alys,  quietly,  "that  there  is  another 
daughter,  you  know.  Papa's  elder  daughter  by  his  first 
marriage— Elizabeth  Lorimer.  Will  not  everything  have 
to  be  divided  with  her  ?  " 

"  Good  heaven ! "  cried  the  solicitor.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say,  Miss  Lorimer,  that  there  is  a — a — another  daughter 
whom  nobody  has  ever  heard  of  ?  He  never  mentioned  a 
second  marriage  to  me."  Mr.  Creighton  positively  gasped 
with  dismay. 

"  It  was  the  first  marriage,"  said  Alys,  trying  to  speak 
clearly.  "  He  was  married,  and  his  wife  died  before  he  met 
my  mother.  His  daughter  is  about  twenty-three  years  old 
by  this  time." 

"  And  where  is  she  ?    Where  does  she  live  ? " 

Alys  looked  blank.  "  I  do  not  know.  I  have  been  ex- 
pecting her  to  appear  all  this  while.     I  took  it  for  granted 

that  she  would  hear  of  papa's I  see  now  that  it  was 

very  silly  of  me.     I  ought  to  have  mentioned  it  before." 

"You  ought  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Creighton.  "We  must 
look  over  your  father's  papers,  and  see  what  instructions  he 
has  left,  my  dear  ;  or  we  may  find  letters.  Dear  me  !  it  is  a 
curious  thing  that  I  never  knew.  You — you  have  always 
known,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  knew  nothing  until  the  night — the  night  before  my 
father  died,"  said  Alys,  turning  her  head  away. 

Mr.  Creighton  made  a  sound  of  inarticulate  reply,  mut- 
tered something  to  himself,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  had  better  come  to  my  business  with  you  before  I  go 


MR.   CREIGHTON'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  41 

into  the  other  matter,"  he  said,  after  a  little  pause.  And 
then  he  launched  into  details  which  were  at  first  somewhat 
confusing  to  Alys,  because  she  did  not  know  whither  they 
were  tending.  The  sum  and  substance  of  Mr.  Creighton's 
communication  was  this:  James  Lorimer  had  chosen  to 
sink  all  the  capital  of  his  wife's  fortune  in  an  annuity  for 
his  own  life.  It  was  the  supremely  selfish  act  of  a  selfish 
man.  He  secured  for  himself  a  remarkably  good  income, 
out  of  which  he  saved  nothing,  denying  himself  no  in- 
dulgence of  his  luxurious  tastes.  Probably  he  cheated  him- 
self into  believing  that  Alys  would  marry  before  his  death, 
and  that  his  elder  daughter  would  be  looked  after  by 
the  Verralls,  his  first  wife's  relatives.  He  did  not  trouble 
himself  about  any  adequate  provision  for  either  of  them. 
His  own  little  income  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  per  annum 
remained  untouched,  and  would  descend  to  his  daughters ; 
the  furniture  of  the  house,  the  pictures,  bric-a-brac,  ex- 
pensive toys  and  pets  would  have  to  be  sold  in  order  to 
cover  outstanding  bills.  Instead  of  being  an  heiress,  Alys 
Lorimer  would  have  a  mere  pittance  of  an  income  and  be 
without  a  home. 

"  I  shall  have  gained  a  sister,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  perhaps 
that  will  make  up  for  all." 

Mr.  Creighton  thought  it  unlikely. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.    CREIGHTON'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  world  might  change,  but  changes  did  not  come  to 
Quest. 

The  lonely  farmhouse,  set  in  the  gap  between  two  blocks 
of  mountain  ranges,  stood  grey  and  solid  in  the  sunshine, 
much  as  it  had  stood  on  the  summer  day  when  James  Lori- 
mer sobbed  his  heart  out  at  the  bedside  of  his  wife  Elizabeth. 
Only  it  was  spring-time  now,  and  the  shrubs  were  but  faint- 


42  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ly  green,  and  there  was  no  glory  of  summer  flowers  in  the 
garden,  but  only  a  tangle  of  violet  and  ranunculus,  primrose 
and  budding  wallflower,  and  daffodils  nodding  beneath  the 
rough-cast  wall. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  was  busy,  flitting  hither  and 
thither,  ordering  her  men  and  maidens,  and  keeping  a 
watchful  eye  over  half-a-dozen  matters  at  a  time ;  for  there 
was  no  cleverer  housewife  in  all  the  country-side  than  Lis- 
beth  Verrall,  mistress  of  Quest.  She  was  three-and-twenty, 
and  had  had  the  management  of  the  farm  for  the  last  eight- 
een months.  All  the  world  had  prophesied  disaster  when 
Farmer  Verrall  died,  leaving  all  that  he  possessed  to  his 
granddaughter's  management;  but  when  it  was  found  that 
everything  went  on  much  as  it  had  done  before,  and  that 
the  farm  appeared  to  flourish  in  Lisbeth's  hands,  the  world 
saw  fit  to  change  its  tune.  "  Best  thing  old  Farmer  Verrall 
could  have  done,"  they  said,  "considering  how  little  his  son 
Zadock  was  fit  for.  Lisbeth  was  a  rare  fine  lass,  and  he 
would  be  very  lucky  as  got  her.  And  a  rich  woman  too,  if 
every  tale  be  true." 

Yes ;  as  Cumberland  counted  riches,  Lisbeth  was  a  woman 
of  wealth.  More  than  that,  she  was  a  woman  of  importance. 
She  had  a  good  head  for  business,  a  strong  will,  and— occa- 
sionally—a  sharp  tongue.  She  was  liked,  she  was  respected, 
and  she  was  sometimes  feared. 

But  she  did  not  look  like  a  person  to  be  feared,  as  she 
paused  for  an  instant  at  the  farmhouse  door,  and  looked  for 
a  moment  at  the  wide  expanse  of  valley  below  the  house, 
lighted  up  by  the  fitful  sunbeams  of  an  April  afternoon. 
She  came  to  the  side  door  for  this  passing  glance  of  hers— 
the  door  that  opened  into  the  garden.  It  was  characteristic 
of  Lisbeth  that  she  would  use  this  door— would  set  it  open, 
and  go  in  and  out  of  it,  in  spite  of  all  remonstrances  from 
her  relations.  They  had  never  used  that  side  door:  the 
kitchen  door  had  served  them  all  their  lives:  why  should 
Lisbeth  uset  herself  up"  to  be  better  than  they  ?  Lisbeth 
made  no  answer  to  these  plaints,  chiefly  uttered  by  old  Mrs. 
Verrall,  her  grandfather's  second  wife;  she  simply  went  on 


MR.   CREIGHTON'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  43 

her  own  way,  and  paid  no  attention.  Every  now  and  then 
somebody  was  in  the  habit  of  grumbling  at  her  for  "fine- 
lady  ways  " — that  is,  for  touches  of  refinement  and  fastidious 
tastes  to  which  small  farmers1  wives  and  daughters  in  the 
neighbourhood  were  not  accustomed;  but  Lisbeth  held 
calmly  on  her  way.  This  power  of  disregarding  opinion 
stood  her  in  good  stead;  but  there  were  moments  when  it 
led  her  into  difficulty  and  danger,  and  had  the  look  not  of  a 
virtue  but  of  a  vice. 

She  was  simply  dressed  in  a  gown  befitting  her  daily 
work — a  plain  cotton,  originally  buff-coloured,  now  faded 
by  repeated  washings  to  a  pale  primrose.  The  dress  was, 
however,  half  concealed  by  a  large  white  apron  with  a  bib. 
The  mixture  of  white  and  yellow  suited  her  dark  beauty ; 
and  the  plainness  of  her  gown  displayed  the  fine  proportions 
of  her  stately  figure  to  perfection.  Lisbeth  was  a  very  hand- 
some woman,  who  stepped  like  a  queen ;  but  she  got  little 
praise  for  beauty  from  the  countrymen  and  countrywomen 
who  surrounded  her.  They  said  she  was  u  a  fine  strapping 
lass,"  and  that  was  all.  Possibly  the  unusual  dignity  of  her 
demeanour,  which  came  partly  by  nature  and  partly  from 
her  position,  had  something  to  do  with  the  want  of  admira- 
tion she  received.  The  yokels  of  the  neighbourhood  liked  a 
girl  to  kiss  and  romp  with,  a  girl  who  boxed  their  ears,  a 
girl  with  whom  they  could  "keep  company."  Nobody  had 
ever  talked  of  u  keeping  company "  with  Lisbeth  Verrall. 
And  yet  there  was  some  one  for  whom  she  watched  beneath 
her  hand,  as  she  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  sunlight,  and 
looked  down  the  winding  road. 

One  man's  eyes,  perhaps,  had  seen  the  beauty  of  her  liquid 
dark  eyes,  of  her  dusky  hair,  springing  from  her  low  broad 
forehead,  in  thick  lovely  waves ;  of  her  warm  complexion, 
cream  colour  melting  into  peach-like  bloom  on  the  oval 
cheek;  of  the  grave  beautiful  mouth,  and  the  delicious 
curves  of  the  throat  and  chin ;  but  this  man,  who  had  eyes 
to  see,  was  no  country  yokel,  and  bore  in  his  county  an  hon- 
oured name.  Was  this  man  a  mate  for  Lisbeth  Verrall,  the 
mistress  of  Quest  ? 


44  THE  MISTRESS  OF   QUEST. 

She  stood  looking,  with  a  faint  smile  lurking  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth.  She  had  seen  something — some  one— in 
the  distance,  and  the  sight  seemed  to  please  her.  By  and  by 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  could  be  heard  on  the  high  road. 
She  instantly  lowered  her  shading  hand  and  stepped  down 
into  the  garden,  as  if  she  had  lost  interest  in  the  person  who 
approached.  But  as  she  bent  over  some  young  springing 
plants,  and  seemed  for  the  moment  absorbed  in  tending 
them,  she  was  quite  conscious  of  the  fact  that  the  sound  was 
drawing  nearer,  that  finally  it  stopped,  and  that  the  rider 
had  dismounted  at  the  farmhouse  gate. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Lisbeth." 

She  turned  at  once  and  smiled,  frankly  enough.  She  did 
not  blush— she  was  too  strong  and  healthy  often  to  change 
colour— but  her  eyes  shone.  She  was  glad  to  see  her  visitor, 
and,  to  judge  by  his  face,  he  was  glad  to  see  her  too. 

u  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Moor." 

The  young  man's  face  fell.  It  was  not  naturally  a  very 
joyous  face,  but  it  had  been  bright  with  expectation  before 
she  spoke. 

"  Mr.  Moor  ?  "  he  repeated,  in  a  reproachful  tone.  "  Lis- 
beth, you  promised  to  be  kind. " 

"  I  don't  see  that  I  am  unkind,"  said  Lisbeth,  still  smiling. 
"I  speak  as  becomes  my  station — that  is  all." 

Her  accent  was  not  untouched  by  northern  influences, 
but  it  was  wonderfully  refined  considering  the  few  oppor- 
tunities she  could  have  had  of  hearing  speech  differing  from 
that  of  the  Verralls.  Francis  Moor,  the  Squire  of  Moor  End, 
never  heard  it  without  marvelling  at  its  superiority  to  the 
accent  of  the  people  around  her.  But  when  she  talked  of 
her  "  station,"  he  took  offence. 

"  If  you  call  me  Mr.  Moor,"  he  said,  "  I  must  call  you  Miss 
Verrall." 

"Well,  indeed,"  said  Lisbeth,  "I  sometimes  think  that 
would  be  best." 

She  was  not  very  amiable  towards  him,  he  thought;  and 
yet  there  was  no  harshness  or  anger  on  her  open  brow.  She 
had  walked  slowly  along  the  flagged  path  until  she  stood 


MR.   CREIGHTON'S  ADVERTISEMENT.  45 

close  to  the  gate,  outside  which  Mr.  Francis  Moor  waited 
humbly.  She  now  unlatched  the  gate  and  opened  it.  "  Won't 
you  come  in,  Mr.  Moor  ? "  she  asked,  demurely. 

To  say  that  Lisbeth  coquetted  would  not  be  true;  she  was 
above  every  form  of  coquetry,  and  quite  too  clear  of  mind 
and  firm  of  purpose  to  employ  it;  but  sometimes,  when  she 
was  in  a  very  gracious  mood,  she  would  play  at  teasing  Mr. 
Moor  a  little,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  and  because  he 
knew  she  did  not  mean  it.  They  had  been  friends  since 
they  were  children,  and.' it  was  only  lately,  and  intermit- 
tently, that  she  had  taken  sometimes  to  calling  him  "  Mr. 
Moor." 

"  Say, '  Come  in,  Frank,'  and  I  will  come,"  said  the  young 
man. 

"  How  foolish  you  are  !  "  she  answered,  in  an  admonitory 
voice.  "  What  will  the  girls  think  if  they  see  me  standing 
here  holding  the  gate  open  for  you  ?  Well,  come  in,  Frank, 
if  you  mean  to  come  in  at  all." 

"That's  right:  I  have  conquered." 

"  You  think  yourself  very  clever,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  a 
touch  of  tender  scorn.  "  I  am  not  so  easily  conquered  as  all 
that." 

u  I  know:  you  need  not  remind  me.  You  are  as  obsti- 
nate as  a  mule,"  said  Frank,  with  the  freedom  engendered 
of  old  acquaintanceship;  ''but  I  like  you  the  better  for  it, 
you  know,  Lisbeth,"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  as  they 
walked  up  the  garden  path  together. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  about  the  red  heifer  ? "  she 
said,  steadfastly  ignoring  the  touch  of  sentiment  that  had 
crept  into  his  musical  young  voice ;  "  but  Zadock's  not  at 
home  just  now.  If  you  will  come  in  and  wait  for  him,  I 
will  make  you  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  I  will  wait  for  the  cup  of  tea  with  pleasure,"  said  Frank; 
"  but,  as  it  happens,  Lisbeth,  I  have  not  come  to  see  Zadock 
or  the  red  heifer,  but  yourself. " 

Lisbeth  lowered  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  raised  them, 
clear  and  fearless,  to  his  face. 

4'  To  see  me  ? "  she  said.  "  It's  rather  the  wrong  time  of 
4 


46  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

day  to  see  me,  especially  if  we  are  to  go  into  that  matter  of 
the  eggs  we  sent  to  your  housekeeper.  I  shall  have  to  get 
out  the  books,  and " 

"  Nonsense,  Lisbeth.  As  if  I  were  going  into  housekeep- 
er's squabbles.  Tell  Mrs.  Crowe  to  go  to  Jericho,  and  be 
hanged  to  her.  We  could  make  her  sing  very  small,  couldn't 
we,  dear,  if  we  chose  ?  *' 

For  once  Lisbeth  flushed — rather  angrily. 

kk  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Moor." 

"Ah,  yes,  Lisbeth,  you  do,  although  you  always  pretend 
to  have  forgotten  now-a-days.  You  remember  the  evening 
up  by  the  barn— where  the  sunset  was  so  beautiful— and  you 
promised  never  to  forget  me.  What  else  did  you  promise, 
Lisbeth  ?     I  have  not  forgotten." 

Lisbeth  had  grown  paler  than  usual,  and  answered  with 
a  certain  kind  of  constraint: 

"We  were  only  boy  and  girl  then,"  she  said,  "and  did 
not  know  what  we  were  talking  about.  I  think  it  is  a  pity 
to  bring  up  things  that  are  dead  and  gone." 

"  But  are  they  dead  and  gone,  Lisbeth  ? "  he  asked,  put- 
ting his  hand  upon  her  wrist.  She  drew  it  away  and  hid  it 
underneath  her  apron.  "  No,  you  shall  not  give  me  your 
answer  now.  I  am  not  asking  for  an  answer,  you  most  cau- 
tious and  cold  of  women.  I  only  want  you  to  know  that  I 
remember  .  .  .  and  do  not  intend  you  to  forget.  No,  I  did 
not  come  for  that.  I  came  for  something  quite  different — 
for  a  good,  solid,  business-like  reason,  which  I  have  in  my 
pocket-book. " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  said,  recovering  her  usual  manner 
as  soon  as  he  quitted  that  very  delicate  subject  of  their 
relationship  to  one  another  in  the  future.  "What  can  it 
be  ? " 

Frank  had  produced  his  pocket-book,  and  now  took  from 
it  a  cutting  from  a  newspaper.  "  Does  not  that  advertise- 
ment apply  to  you  ? "  he  said. 

Lisbeth  took  it  and  read— 

"  If  Elizabeth  Lorimer,  daughter  of  the  late  James  Lori- 
mer  and  Lisa  Lorimer,  his  wife,  will  apply  to  Messrs.  Jerrold 


MR.    CREIGHTON'S   ADVERTISEMENT.  47 

&  Creighton  " — here  followed  a  lengthy  London  address — 
"she  will  hear  of  something  to  her  advantage." 

Lisbeth's  black  brows  contracted.  "  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  name  of  Lorimer,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  called 
Verrall  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  and  I'm  too  old  to  begin 
with  anything  else." 

"  You  need  not.  You  can  still  call  yourself  Verrall — or 
any  other  name;  but — that  advertisement  does  apply  to  you, 
does  it  not  ?    I  was  puzzled  at  first  by  the  name  Lisa." 

"  Oh,  that  is  easily  explained,"  said  Elizabeth  Verrall, 
almost  roughly.  "  He  called  her  Lisa;  Lizzy  was  not  grand 
enough  for  him,  granny  used  to  tell  me.  Yes,  I  suppose  the 
advertisement  is  for  me. " 

"  Evidently  your  father  is  dead,"  said  the  young  man. 

uSo  I  suppose." 

Lisbeth  stood  straight  and  square  in  the  doorway:  her 
brows  still  contracted,  her  lips  compressed.  The  mention  of 
this  dead  father  made  her  angry.  But  there  were  things 
Frank  Moor  wanted  to  know,  and  he  did  not  mind  Lisbeth's 
anger  very  much. 

"You  have  not  known  for  some  time  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead,  have  you  ?"  be  asked. 

"We  did  not  want  to  know." 

"But  when  was  he  here  last  ?" 

"  Fifteen  years  ago.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  occasion- 
ally written  a  letter  to  my  grandfather,  and  sent  him 
money  for  my  keep;  after  that  he  never  wrote  or  sent  any- 
thing again.  I  might  have  gone  to  the  workhouse  for  all 
he  cared.  I  think  him  a  bad,  selfish  man,"  said  Lisbeth, 
with  flashing  eyes,  "  and  I  am  not  sorry  to  hear  that  he  is 
dead." 

"  Perhaps  he  died  when  you  were  a  child,"  said  Frank, 
reflectively,  "  and  could  not  do  anything  for  you." 

"  Then,  why  do  people  seek  me  out  now  ? " 

"  His  heirs— if  be  had  any — have  only  just  learnt  of  your 
existence,  perhaps.  Come,  Lisbeth,  you  must  not  be  hard 
and  unjust.  You  must  find  out  what  this  advertisement  is 
about. " 


48  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  determinedly, 
'kI  don't  want  to  know." 

u  Your  friends  will  want  to  know  for  you." 

"  Ay  ! "  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  world  of  bitter  meaning  in 
her  tone.  "To  know  whether  he  has  left  me  a  fortune; 
after  despising  me  and  doing  his  worst  for  me  all  my  life- 
time! Do  you  think  that  makes  amends?  It  isn't  that  I 
blame  him  for  leaving  me  here  with  my  grandfather:  he 
couldn't  have  done  better  for  me  than  that,  and  nobody 
honours  my  grandfather  more  than  I  do;  but  it  is  just  that 
he  took  no  notice,  he  did  not  care,  he  did  not  love  me  as  a 
father  should  have  done.  I  can't  forgive  him  for  that, 
Frank,  and  I  never  shall." 

"  But,  perhaps,  it  was  accidental  ?  perhaps  he  did  care  for 
you  in  his  heart  ? "  said  Frank,  who  had  been  in  the  habit 
for  many  years  of  trying  to  soften  Lisbeth  in  a  hundred  hard 
or  angry  moods. 

"  I  know  better  than  that,"  said  Lisbeth,  abruptly.  "  He 
came  here  when  I  was  eight  years  old,  and  I  was  called  in 
from  the  fields  to  come  and  speak  to  him.  They  say  he  was 
fond  of  my  mother — I  do  not  know:  I  think  if  he  had  loved 
her  he  would  not  have  looked  at  me  and  spoken  to  me  as  he 
did.  'Faugh!'  he  said,  'she  reeks  of  clay.  Stand  where 
you  are:  don't  come  nearer  me.  Is  she  always  as  grimy  as 
she  is  now,  Mrs.  Verrall  ? '  These  were  his  words:  you  may 
laugh  at  them  if  you  please,  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  tone 
—the  look— the  accent— Oh,  he  hated  me,  and  I  hated  him : 
I  shall  never  think  of  him  with  any  love  or  pleasure;  and  it 
is  no  use  trying  to  make  me  change  my  mind." 

As  she  spoke  she  tore  the  paper  across,  and  let  the  frag- 
ments float  away  upon  the  breeze. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  Frank,  discontentedly ;  "  but, 
Lisbeth— think— it  may  not  be  for  your  own  good  only: 
there  may  be  relations  of  his,  even  if  he  is  not  living,  whom 
you  might  help " 

He  knew  that  the  thought  of  help  rendered  to  another 
would  stir  her  more  than  any  hope  of  benefit  for  herself. 

k' Ah,  well!"   she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "if  there  had  been 


BY  THE  QUARRY.  49 

anybody !  But  he  is  dead ;  and  I  know  nothing  of  his  rela- 
tions. The  advertisement  speaks  only  of  '  something  to  my 
advantage':  why  should  I  seek  my  advantage  through 
him  ? " 

She  was  not  to  be  persuaded,  and  Francis  Moor  finally 
held  his  tongue.  "  I  shall  be  going  to  London  myself  next 
week,"  he  thought,  uand  I  might  seek  out  these  precious 
lawyers — I  suppose  they  are  lawyers — for  myself.  I  know 
the  address.  There  can  be  no  harm  in  ascertaining  the 
truth,  at  any  rate.1' 

Aloud  he  only  said,  "  You  always  have  your  own  way, 
Lisbeth.  You  must  have  it  in  this  case,  I'm  afraid.  But  I 
think  you  are  wrong." 

Lisbeth  smiled.  It  was  delightful  to  her  to  be  told  that 
she  was  "  wrong  "  by  Francis  Moor. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

BY  THE  QUARRY. 

When  the  month  of  May  was  well-nigh  over,  Francis 
Moor  rode  up  again  to  the  gate  of  Quest.  There  was  a  look 
of  triumph  on  his  brow. 

Mr.  Francis  Moor  was  in  a  somewhat  peculiar  position. 
He  was  the  owner  of  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  cele- 
brated old  houses — half  of  it  in  ruins — in  the  county:  he 
was  the  possessor  of  an  estate  which  brought  him  in  almost 
nothing  a  year;  and  he  was  even  more  unlucky  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  talent  which  had  not  been  sufficiently  cultivated 
to  be  turned  to  use,  and  which  unfitted  him  for  other  things. 
He  had  a  passion  for  music,  and  played  the  violin  with  ex- 
quisite pathos ;  but  he  just  wanted  the  power,  the  technique, 
which  would  have  made  his  talent  marketable.  Besides,  his 
mother  would  have  broken  her  heart  (she  said)  if  he  had 
become  a  professional  musician ;  and  he  was  very  fond  of 
his  mother.     He  had  been  brought  up  to  think  a  good  deal 


50  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

of  himself — of  his  family,  his  ancestors,  his  grand  old  house: 
his  name  ranked  higher  than  that  of  many  nobles,  simple 
though  it  was,  and  he  had  that  curious  touch  of  pride  which 
makes  a  man  associate  freely  with  persons  connected  with 
the  land — gamekeepers,  shepherds,  yeomen,  for  instance — 
while  he  hates  and  detests  anything  connected  with  the  very 
name  of  trade.  Thus  to  Francis  Moor  the  Verralls  were  far 
more  to  his  mind  and  of  "  his  sort "  than  the  retired  grocers 
who  had  just  built  a  brand  new  red-brick  castle  down  in  the 
valley,  and  were  reputed  to  be  millionaires.  And  his  mother, 
Lady  Adela,  would  have  agreed  with  him. 

But  these  ideas — confessedly  behind  the  age — were  the 
bane  of  his  life.  What  was  there  that  he  could  do  without 
soiling  his  fingers  ?  He  could  not  go  into  "  business  " ;  he 
had  not  money  enough  for  a  profession.  Even  the  army 
was  closed  to  him  because  of  his  want  of  ready  cash.  He 
had  not  been  sent  to  the  University :  he  had  idled  about  at 
home,  vaguely  waiting  for  the  a appointment"  which  some 
noble  relative  had  promised,  and  which  never  came.  He 
read  classics  with  a  clergyman,  looked  after  his  poor  little 
estate,  played  the  fiddle,  and  made  love  to  Elizabeth  Ver- 
rall — or,  to  give  her  for  once  her  right  name,  Elizabeth 
Lorimer. 

It  was  not  a  healthful  nor  an  elevating  existence.  To 
Frank  Moor's  credit  be  it  spoken,  he  did  not  fall  into  any 
very  bad  habits:  partly  because  of  a  certain  innate  refine- 
ment of  mind,  partly  because  of  Lisbeth's  influence.  He 
had  an  idealistic  nature :  he  liked  to  dream,  to  scribble  verses, 
to  read  old  books :  and,  as  old  Farmer  Verrall  used  to  ob- 
serve, "there  was  no  harm  in  him."  Nevertheless,  he  was 
not  a  milksop :  he  was  expert  in  athletics,  a  good  runner  and 
wrestler,  and  the  best  rider  in  the  country  side— a  distinction 
which  his  mother  prized  far  above  any  that  he  could  have 
wron  in  the  musical  profession. 

Of  course,  Lady  Adela  knew  that  her  son  went  very  often 
to  Quest.  He  was  much  too  candid  to  conceal  the  fact;  and 
he  did  not  hide  his  admiration  for  Lisbeth.  But  his  mother 
never  seemed  alarmed. 


BY  THE  QUARRY.  51 

"  You  must  have  great  confidence  in  your  son,"  a  friend 
once  remarked  to  her,  after  a  heated  discussion  of  Frank's 
"little  ways.'' 

"  1  have,  at  any  rate,  great  confidence  in  Miss  Verrall," 
Lady  Adela  replied,  with  a  smile ;  and  the  friend  could  say 
no  more. 

11  Lisbeth,  where  are  you  ? "  said  the  young  man,  pene- 
trating joyously  into  the  dairy,  where  he  had  no  business  to 
be.  "  How  cool  and  sweet  it  is  here,  after  London  !  Lis- 
beth, I  want  you  to  come  out  and  talk  to  me  on  most  impor- 
tant business.     Come,  there's  a  dear." 

Lisbeth  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  for  one  of  the  maids 
was  within  hearing,  and  grinning  from  ear  to  ear  ;  but 
Mr.  Moor  took  no  notice.  "  Come  for  a  walk  with  me,"  he 
said,  coaxingly,  when  he  had  almost  dragged  her  into  the 
garden.  "  It  is  a  lovely  morning,  and  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

"  You  are  very  unreasonable,  Mr.  Moor.  How  can  I 
leave  my  work  ?  I  am  so  busy  now  that  I  don't  know  how 
to  get  done,  and  I  certainly  cannot  waste  the  morning  in 
idle  chatter." 

"  Lisbeth,  don't  be  severe." 

"  Besides,"  said  Lisbeth,  straightening  herself,  "  it  is  not 
right  for  the  servants  to  see  me  gadding  about  with  you  of  a 
morning.  Patty  was  laughing  in  the  rudest  wTay.  I  will 
not  have  it.  You  might  at  least  call  me  Miss  Verrall  when 
my  servants  are  there  to  hear." 

"  Lisbeth,  forgive  me,  dear  ;  I  am  very  sorry,"  said 
Frank,  putting  on  an  aspect  of  penitence.  She  looked  at 
him  sternly,  really  thinking  in  her  own  mind  how  much 
handsomer  he  was  than  other  men.  His  finely-chiselled 
features,  pale  complexion,  soft  brown  eyes,  and  small  pointed 
beard  were  just  what  she  had  seen  in  the  pictures  that  hung 
in  the  gallery  at  Moor  End.  Francis  Moor  was  like  the  an- 
cestors who  had  worn  ruffs  and  doublets  in  Tudor  times,  or 
in  later  days  the  love-locks  of  the  cavalier.  She  felt  that  he 
was  not  a  modern  man,  and  knew  next  to  nothing  of  the 
realities  of  life. 


52  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Gradually  her  features  relaxed  a  little— for  how  could 
she  long  be  angry  with  him,  when  she  loved  him  so  well  ?— 
and  she  actually  smiled. 

"  You  ought  to  know  better  than  to  come  in  the  morn- 
ing," she  said.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  If  you  wait 
for 'half-an-hour,  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  go  up  to  the  Quarry, 
and  you  can  walk  with  me.  I  did  not  mean  to  go  until 
afternoon;  but  I'll  try  to  manage  it  in  the  morning.  Now 
I  must  go  back  to  the  dairy.  I'm  making  up  the  butter  for 
market." 

4i  Can't  I  come  with  you? " 

"No." 

"  Where's  Zadock,  then?    I  haven't  seen  him  for  an  age." 

Lisbeth's  dark  eyes  softened.  He  could  see  that  he  had 
pleased  her  by  the  inquiry.  She  was  devotedly  attached  to 
Zadock  Verrall— poor  Zadock,  whose  mind  was  hopelessly 
clouded,  whose  great  physical  strength  indeed  remained, 
and  could  be  utilised  by  others,  but  whose  intellect  was  that 
of  the  child  whom  James  Lorimer  had  felled  to  the  ground 
in  passionate  anger  at  the  taunt  hurled  at  him  by  the  baby 
lips.  Lisbeth  was  friend,  sister,  mother  almost,  to  Zadock, 
whose  own  mother,  a  querulous  invalid,  usually  to  be  found 
in  the  great  cushioned  armchair  in  the  chimney-corner  of 
the  kitchen  at  Quest,  was  neither  help  nor  comfort  to  any 
one;  and  he  rewarded  her  for  her  affection  by  the  dumb 
dog-like  devotion  of  a  creature  who  is  too  simple  for  any- 
thing but  love. 

She  directed  Frank  to  the  place  where  Zadock  might  be 
found,  and  the  young  man  went  off  cheerily  to  seek  him  out. 
To  people  who  were  used  to  his  infirmity,  there  was  a  good 
deal  to  like  in  Zadock.  He  was  "  simple,"  as  the  country- 
folk said;  but  he  was  harmless  and  kindly.  Wild  creatures 
loved  him,  and  let  him  explore  their  haunts  without  fear. 
There  was  no  better  guide  than  Zadock  to  the  uplying  lands, 
the  hillsides,  and  the  fells ;  and  no  country  lad  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood but  felt  honoured  when  he  was  allowed  to  follow 
the  brawny  simpleton  to  some  far-off  resort  of  moorland 
birds  and'  beasts.     Nervous  mothers  grumbled  now  and  then, 


BY  THE  QUARRY.  53 

saying  that  the  poor  fool  was  a  dangerous  character,  and  led 
their  boys  into  peril  from  which  he  could  easily  extricate  him- 
self, but  had  not  the  wit  to  help  others.  Also,  it  was  noticed 
that  he  had  occasional  fits  of  unreasonable  anger,  during 
which  his  great  strength  made  him  somewhat  to  be  feared, 
as  he  could  not  be  easily  restrained  by  force,  nor  made  to 
understand  remonstrance.  But  a  word  from  Lisbeth  quieted 
him ;  and  in  fact  these  passions  of  anger  were  rarely  roused, 
and  only  when  he  fancied,  in  his  poor  fool's  brain,  that  she 
was  hurt,  insulted,  or  injured  in  any  way. 

"Well,  Zadock,  how  goes  it  ?"  said  Frank,  who  found 
him  in  the  byre  with  a  pitchfork  in  his  hand. 

Zadock's  face  brightened.  He  gave  an  awkward  nod 
and  a  queer  short  laugh,  which  showed  that  he  was  pleased. 
His  figure  was  of  herculean  proportions,  but  spoiled  by  a 
slouching  gait  ;  his  blue-grey  eyes  were  clouded,  and  the 
sunburnt  face,  meant  by  Nature,  alas !  to  be  intelligent,  was 
stolidly  vacuous.  He  stood  leaning  on  his  pitchfork,  and 
smiling:  it  was  his  form  of  sociability. 

"  Good  growing  weather,  eh,  Zadock?" 

Zadock  nodded. 

"  Got  anything  new  to  show  me  ?  " 

The  simpleton's  face  beamed  with  delight.  He  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  long  variegated  snake, 
which  twined  itself  round  his  arm  in  a  most  familiar  man- 
ner.    Frank  laughed,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  take  it. 

"Nay,"  said  Zadock,  in  a  thick  guttural  voice;  "she'll 
bite  thee.     See  here !  " 

He  forced  open  the  snake's  slit  of  a  mouth,  and  exhib- 
ited the  fangs. 

"She's  a  bad  'un,"  he  said. 

"But  what  is  it? — an  adder  ? "  Frank  asked. 

"Eh,  I  doan't  know.  Striped  lady,  I  call  her.  She's 
none  from  these  parts." 

"  Strayed  from  a  menagerie,  I  believe,"  muttered  Frank. 
"  Look  here,  Zadock,  you  must  be  careful  of  that  brute.  It 
might  hurt  you." 

"  She  won't  hurt  Zadock;  she  knows  me."    And  as  if  to 


51  THE  MISTRESS   OF   QUEST. 

prove  the  truth  of  his  remark,  the  young  man  unwound  the 
creature  and  thrust  it  carelessly  back  into  his  pocket,  the 
snake  seeming"  quite  heedless  of  the  handling  it  received 
from  its  master. 

Frank  strolled  about  the  farmyard  for  a  little  while, 
until  he  saw  Lisbeth  approaching  him  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  She  had  changed  her  dress  in  honour  of  his  com- 
panionship, and  wore  a  close-fitting  tweed  and  felt  hat— a 
workmanlike,  well-made  dress,  which  might  have  been 
worn  by  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land.  A  cock's  feather  in 
her  hat  gave  the  touch  of  smartness  which  Miss  Verrall  was 
sometimes  inclined  to  despise. 

"How  nice  you  look,  Lisbeth!"  said  Mr.  Moor.  He 
spoke  out  his  thoughts  to  her  as  frankly  as  a  boy.  "I've 
seen  nobody,  even  in  London,  who  could  compare  with  you ; 
or,  at  least — not  many." 

He  paused  suddenly,  as  if  confused  by  a  darting  memory; 
and  Lisbeth  laughed.  She  was  in  good  spirits,  and  meant 
to  enjoy  her  walk.  For  the  purposes  of  enjoyment  it  was 
better  that  Frank  should  not  be  too  sentimental. 

"  I'm  glad  you  put  in  that  last  phrase,"  she  said.  "  It 
sounds  more  truthful  than  the  first  one." 

"  Let  me  carry  your  basket." 

"  No,  thank  you ;  Zadock  will  do  that.  You  know  he  is 
hurt  if  anybody  else  carries  it  for  me,"  she  added,  in  a  lower 
tone,  as  Zadock  shambled  up.  He  took  the  basket,  and  fell 
behind  them,  like  a  servant — it  was  Zadock's  way.  Lisbeth 
and  Francis  Moor  took  no  further  notice  of  him;  it  was 
enough  for  him  that  he  was  in  their  company,  and  of  use  to 
his  beloved  Lisbeth. 

"  Why  are  you  going  to  the  Quarry  ? " 

"  One  of  the  ploughman's  children  is  ill.  I  promised  to 
take  her  some  beef  tea  and  eggs." 

"You  are  always  so  good,  Lisbeth— especially  to  those 
who  are  in  trouble." 

Lisbeth  divined  some  special  meaning  in  this  address. 
She  looked  at  him  quickly.  "  I  know  you  are  going  to  ask 
me  to  do  something  for  somebody,  Mr.  Moor." 


BY   THE   QUARRY.  55 

"  I  can't  deny  it,  Lisbeth.     But  why  on  that  account " 

u  Frank,  then,'1  she  said,  not  waiting  for  the  end  of  his 
remonstrance.  "  But  what  is  it  ?  You  look  rather  serious 
— is  it  something  more  important  than  usual  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  witch-woman,  it  is.  Lisbeth,  I  am  a  little  bit 
afraid  of  what  you  will  say  to  me.  I  have  done  something 
which  I  am  afraid  you  may  not  like." 

u  Tell  me,  Frank." 

"  You  know  that  I  have  been  to  London  ?  It  seemed  to 
me,  Lisbeth,  that  you  were  making  a  mistake  in  not  answer- 
ing that  advertisement.  So  I  went  myself  to  the  address, 
saw  the  lawyer,  and  obtained  the  necessary  particulars. 
There  is  no  fortune  for  you  to  inherit,  you  may  be  glad  to 
hear." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  But  you  had  no  business  to  go 
without  my  consent." 

"I  know  I  had  not.  But  for  once,  Lisbeth,  I  did  not 
think  you  were  doing  your  duty.  And  I'm  quite  sure  of  it 
now." 

He  was  speaking  with  more  caution  and  reserve  than 
usual,  for  he  knew  the  strength  of  that  resolution  which 
was  to  be  read  so  plainly  upon  Lisbeth's  face. 

"I  am  sure  you  ought  to  know,"  he  went  on,  earnestly. 
"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  your  father  married  again  ?  " 

11 1  am  not  surprised." 

"  His  wife  died,  leaving  him  money.  He  had  one  daugh- 
ter, whom  he  brought  up  in  comfort  and  luxury.  She  is 
nineteen  now;  lame,  and — rather  delicate  in  health." 

"  She  has  no  doubt  plenty  of  friends,"  said  Lisbeth,  drily. 

"Wait  a  moment.  James  Lorimer  spent  his  wife's 
money  in  providing  himself  with  an  annuity,  terminable 
with  his  life.  He  has  left  his  daughter  about  seventy 
pounds  a  year,  and  a  little  ready  money  from  the  sale  of 
his  furniture.  The  girl  has  not  been  used  to  do  anything 
for  herself:  she  does  not  know  how  to  manage  things:  she 
is  quite  alone  in  the  world." 

"  You  have  seen  her  '? " 

"For  five  minutes  or  so.     She  did  not  know  that  I  knew 


56  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

you.  She  had  heard  of  you  only  the  night  before  her  father 
died.  She  is  staying— on  sufferance,  I  gather— at  the  law- 
yer's house — a  Mr.  Creighton,  whom  I  happened  to  know 
something  of.     I  saw  her  there  for  a  few  minutes." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  Lisbeth  spoke.  "  You  want 
me  to  do  something,  Frank,"  she  said.  u  What  is  it  ?  Speak 
out:  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  be  timid  with  me." 

"I  am  not  timid,"  said  Frank,  a  little  hurt  by  her  tone; 
"only— I  wanted  you  to  propose  it  yourself." 

tk  Propose  what  ? " 

"  I  want  you  to  be  a  friend  to  that  poor  child,  Lisbeth — 
she  is  alone." 

"  And  how  can  I  be  a  friend  to  her  ?  What  can  I  do  for 
her  ?  She  is  used  to  grander  people  than  poor  farmer-folk. 
She  would  laugh  at  the  idea  of  calling  me  her  friend." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  She  had  a  forlorn  kind  of  look.  I 
want  you  to  write  to  her,  Lisheth,  and  ask  her  to  come  here." 

"  To  come  here  !  "  There  was  a  note  of  derision  in  Lis- 
beth's  voice. 

"  Yes,  to  come  here.  You  are  her  sister— her  elder  sister; 
and  you  should  look  after  her. " 

All  this  time  they  had  been  breasting  a  steep  hill;  and 
now  they  stood  on  a  ridge  beside  which  the  remains  of  a 
deep  quarry  could  be  seen.  Two  or  three  stone  cottages 
were  grouped  together  in  the  hollow. 

"  I  am  going  in,"  said  Lisbeth,  abruptly.  "  Wait  for  me 
here." 

Frank  flung  himself  down  upon  the  crisp  short  turf,  and 
waited,  keenly  enjoying  the  fresh  invigorating  breezes  of 
the  heights,  the  fine  view  of  the  valley,  the  blue  sky  with  its 
puffs  of  white  cloud  overhead.  It  was  some  time  before 
Lisbeth  returned.  Her  face  was  very  serious  as  she  stood 
beside  him. 

"  Frank,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  it  over.  There 
is  a  little  child  dying  inside  that  house.  The  mother  is  cry- 
ing at  its  bedside.  I  thought  when  I  saw  them — of  her 
mother — and  of  mine.  ...  I  can't  make  it  quite  clear  even 
to  myself;  but  I  mean  that  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do — if 


AN   UNWELCOME  GUEST.  57 

I  can  prevent  some  other  woman's  child  from  being  as 
lonely  as — as  I — have  sometimes  been;  then  I'll  do  it,  if 
I  can." 

Frank  had  half  drawn  himself  up,  but  had  halted  upon 
one  knee  at  Lisbeth's  side.  Now  he  drew  her  hand  towards 
his  lips  and  kissed  it  before  she  knew  what  he  was  think- 
ing of. 

"You  are  the  noblest  of  women,  Lisbeth."  he  said;  "and 
if  you  had  seen  that  sweet  delicate  girl,  pining  under  her 
weight  of  sorrow  and  loneliness,  you  would  want  to  help 
her  as  much  as  I  did." 

"  Tell  me  what  I  shall  do,"  said  Lisbeth  simply ;  but,  in 
spite  of  her  generous  magnanimity,  a  strange  new  pang 
suddenly  pierced  her  womanly  heart. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AN  UNWELCOME  GUEST. 

Alys  Lorimer  had  been  nearly  six  months  with  the 
Creighton  s.  They  had  all  been  kind  to  her— especially  at 
first ;  and  she  was  so  bewildered  with  the  shock  of  her  grief 
and  her  new  circumstances  that  she  did  not  for  some  time 
realise  that  she  might  be  an  unwelcome  guest.  Some  few 
words  about  the  inconvenience  of  the  loss  of  a  spare  room, 
overheard  accidentally  (as  she  believed)  by  her,  opened  her 
eyes.  She  had  overstayed  her  welcome.  Mrs.  Creighton 
wanted  her  gone ;  Lydia  was  tired  of  her ;  she  had  been  in 
Mrs.  Creighton 's  way.     She  must  go — but  whither  ? 

Other  members  of  the  family  showed  no  signs  of  dislike 
or  weariness.  Edmund  was  always  assiduously  kind;  Mar- 
cia,  from  G-irton,  was  pleased  to  have  a  new  hearer  for  her 
adventures;  Julian  devoted  herself  with  ardour  to  Alys's 
entertainment.  Still  it  was  different  from  her  old  life :  she 
missed  the  little  luxuries  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed ; 
she  shrank  into  herself  at  tiny  slights,  wrhich  she  had  never 


58  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

before  encountered.  For  the  first  week  or  two  she  was 
treated  as  an  honoured  visitor;  then,  as  Mrs.  Creighton  dis- 
covered how  narrow  her  income  was  likely  to  be,  she  gradu- 
ally dropped  the  little  attentions  which  she  had  showered 
on  her  guest.  The  fire  in  the  bedroom  was  discontinued ; 
then  the  cup  of  tea  before  dressing;  the  delicate  refection  at 
eleven;  the  daily  drive— all  these  things  became  non-exist- 
ent; and  Alys  found  herself  by  degrees  reduced  to  a  state 
of  discomfort  which  she  had  not  even  experienced  in  her 
schooldays.  Of  course,  she  had  no  maid ;  and  her  lameness 
made  her  rather  slow  and  unhandy  in  doing  things  for  her- 
self. But  it  was  not  kind  of  Mrs.  Creighton  to  sneer  at  her 
for  her  helplessness;  and  tears  of  shame  and  anger  rose  very 
often  to  poor  Alys's  eyes  when  she  realised  the  position  in 
which  she  was  placed. 

Neither  Mr.  Creighton  nor  Edmund  had  any  notion  of 
this  state  of  things.  Men  do  not  easily  fathom  the  ways  in 
which  a  woman's  spite  can  vent  itself.  When  the  two  men 
came  home  in  the  evening  they  found  every  one  smiling 
and  radiant ;  and  if  Alys,  in  her  plain  black  dress,  looked 
pale  and  spiritless,  they  put  it  down  to  grief  for  her  bereave- 
ment, and  thought  no  more  about  it.  Edmund  was  usually 
keen-eyed ;  but  his  affection  for  his  mother  and  sisters  blinded 
him  a  little  to  their  faults,  and  they  took  care  to  conceal  from 
him  any  evidences  of  coldness  or  unkindness.  They  knew 
very  well  that  Alys  would  not  tell.  It  was  reserved  for 
Julian  to  open  Edmund's  eyes. 

She  lay  in  wait  for  him  one  afternoon  when  he  came 
home  about  six  o'clock,  and  drew  him  into  a  little  book-room 
or  library  near  the  hall  door.  u  Edmund,"  she  began,  "  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  about  Alys.     She  is  so  miserable." 

"  Miserable  ? "  said  Edmund.     "  Why  ? " 

He  himself  did  not  look  very  happy.  He  was  very  weary 
in  his  mind. 

"  Because  mamma  and  Lydia  are  so  unkind  to  her.  They 
are,  indeed.  They  do  everything  they  can  to  make  her  un- 
comfortable, because  they  want  that  spare  room ;  and  they 
don't  like  having  her  here,  now  that  she  isn't  rich.     Oh, 


AN  UNWELCOiME  GUEST.  59 

Edmund,  indeed  it  is  true.  I  am  not  a  silly,  spiteful  child; 
I  have  eyes,  and  I  can  see." 

11  But,  surely,  Julian — you  don't  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing !    Mother  would  never  be  unkind  to  a  friendless  girl " 

'*  Oh,  wouldn't  she  ?  You  don't  know  her.  You  don't 
know  how  she  used  to  behave  to  the  governesses.  Well,  I'll 
give  you  a  proof.  Alys  is  to  turn  out  of  the  spare  room,  be- 
cause it  is  wanted  for  Arabella  Brownson;  and  she  is  to 
have  the  little  attic-room ;  and  mamma  suggested  yesterday 
that  she  ought  to  make  herself  useful,  and  that  she  might 
mend  the  house-linen " 

"Julian!" 

"  It  is  quite  true,  Edmund.  I'm  glad  you  are  indignant. 
Alys  was  as  sweet  as  possible,  and  said  she  ought  to  have 
thought  of  it  herself,  and  she  has  been  working  all  day  at 
these  wretched  sheets  and  tablecloths  and  things,  until  she 
is  quite  worn  out ;  but  she  won't  leave  off,  although  she  is 
as  hot  and  nervous  and  overdone  as  she  can  be,  because  she 
says  she  wants  to  show  that  she  is  grateful.  Grateful,  Ed- 
mund !  isn't  it  hateful  of  mamma  to  have  put  such  ideas  in 
her  head  ? " 

Edmund  stood  frowning  and  indignant.  u  Where  is 
she  ? "  he  asked,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  She  is  in  the  old  schoolroom,  sewing  for  dear  life,"  said 
Julian,  with  a  short  little  laugh.  "  Come  and  see  her:  make 
her  put  it  away.  She  will  kill  herself  if  she  goes  on  like 
this.  Come  upstairs:  you  needn't  be  afraid:  mamma  and 
Lydia  are  out." 

Edmund  followed  silently.  He  was  dismayed.  And  he 
was  in  this  difficulty — that  his  father  had  all  but  forbidden 
him  to  make  love  to  Alys  Lorimer.  "  If  you  do,  you'll  de- 
prive her  of  a  home,"  Mr.  Creighton  had  said.  "  I  shall  not 
keep  her  under  my  roof  if  there  is  going  to  be  any  nonsense 
of  that  kind." 

So  Edmund  had  held  aloof,  meaning,  however,  to  take 
matters  into  his  own  hands  when  six  months  had  elapsed. 
But  Julian  had  forced  his  hand  by  her  disclosures. 

He  wished  vainly  that  he  had  made  his  decision  and 


60  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

spoken  of  his  love  to  Alys  on  that  day  when  they  sat  to- 
gether and  looked  at  the  flowers  in  the  conservatory.  He 
had  been  held  back  then,  partly  because  he  was  shocked  by 
the  facts  concerning  the  annuity  which  Mr.  Lorimer  had 
that  afternoon  divulged  to  him :  partly  because  he  thought 
he  did  not  know  his  own  mind.  He  knew  it  now.  He  knew 
that  he  loved  Alys  truly  and  sincerely,  and  that  he  did  not 
care  a  jot  for  her  want  of  wealth.  But  could  he  make  her 
understand  wThy  he  had  never  spoken  before  ? 

The  old  schoolroom  was  a  small  apartment  near  the  top 
of  the  house,  little  used  now  because  it  was  dark  and  incon- 
venient. Here  sat  Alys  Lorimer.  and  a  glance  at  her  showed 
Edmund  that  Julian's  account  had  not  been  overdrawn. 
Alys  was  hot  and  tired  and  nervous :  her  cheek — much  thin- 
ner than  it  used  to  be — burned  with  a  hectic  flush,  and  her 
eyes  were  heavy  and  swollen:  her  hands  trembled,  and  her 
posture,  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing,  showed  fatigue  and 
dejection.  She  blushed  violently  when  Edmund  entered, 
and  turned  a  reproachful  eye  on  Julian,  but  she  could  not 
speak. 

Edmund  simply  went  up  to  her  and  took  the  work  out  of 
her  hands.  "  Take  this  away,  Julian,"  he  said,  sweeping  an 
armful  of  white  stuff  from  the  table.  u  Take  it  all  down  to 
the  servants.  Miss  Lorimer  is  never  to  touch  it  again :  do 
you  hear  ?     It  is  much  too  tiring  for  her." 

Julian  gathered  up  the  work  gleefully,  and  disappeared 
with  a  snowy  pile  under  her  arm.  Alys  protested  feebly, 
tried  to  laugh,  and  ended  by  a  burst  of  almost  hysterical 
tears. 

"You  are  much  too  tired,"  said  Edmund,  tenderly. 
11  Mind,  this  is  never  to  happen  again.  I  shall  speak  to  my 
mother." 

"  No,  no:  don't  do  that.  Indeed — indeed,  I  don't  want  to 
be  ungrateful " 

Sobs  choked  her  utterance,  and  Edmund  ground  his  teeth. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  gratitude.  She  knows — or  ought 
to  know — what  I  feel  for  you,  Alys.  I  expected  her  to  treat 
you  as  a  daughter." 


AN  UNWELCOME  GUEST.  01 

Alys  gave  a  little  start,  and  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"  Yes — a  daughter.  Let  me  speak,  dearest.  I  have  long 
loved  you,  and  have  wanted  to  tell  you  of  my  love.  My 
father  bade  me  wait  a  little  while;  but  he  has  known  for 
months  what  my  feelings  were.  I  must  speak  now ;  and  I 
must  make  others  understand.  You  shall  never  be  teased 
and  trampled  on  again, — Alys,  my  sweet,  delicate  darling — 
my  white  flower !  " 

He  was  going  on  in  the  full  confidence  of  possession 
when  a  little  cry  from  her  interrupted  him. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  murmured ;  "  but,  no,  no,  Edmund, 
it  can  never  be." 

"  Can  it  not  ? "  he  answered,  almost  smiling  at  what  he 
took  to  be  her  timidity.  "  Indeed,  my  darling,  it  can.  You 
must  not  be  misled  by  a  little  sharpness  of  tongue  on  my 
mother's  part.  Perhaps  you  mistook — or  perhaps  she 
thought  that  you  were  a  little  unkind  to  me.  You  have 
been  very  cold  of  late,  you  know.     But,  dear  Alys " 

"  You  must  not  go  on,"  said  Alys,  shrinking  from  him. 
"  I  could  not;  it  is  no  use." 

"  What  is  no  use  ? "  he  said,  brought  at  last  to  see  that 
her  words  had  a  definite  meaning. 

"  I  could  not— marry  you.  I  do  not  care  for  you  enough. 
Oh,  indeed,  I  like  you  very  much  as  a  friend,"  she  said, 
warned  by  the  gathering  gloom  on  Edmund's  face  that  she 
had  given  pain,  and  perhaps  offence ;  "  but  not — not  as  any- 
thing else.     You  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But,  Alys,  you  are  imagining  that  my  people  would  ob- 
ject, and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  have  influence  enough " 

"  No,  it  is  not  that,"  said  Alys.  Then,  with  gathered  firm- 
ness, she  went  on,  "  I  should  not  mind  any  opposition,  if 
only  I  loved  a  man  well  enough." 

"  But  could  you  not  go  through  it  for  my  sake  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Alys,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but  reso- 
lute. And  yet  she  was  sorry  to  bring  such  a  shadow  to  his 
face. 

He  let  her  go,  and  she  sank  into  her  chair  again,  while 
he  stood  by  her  silently  wrestling  with  a  hundred  shapes  of 


62  TIIE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

anger,  sorrow,  resentment,  and  bewilderment.  He  had  been 
almost  sure  that  she  cared  for  him  not  very  long  ago. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  brought  himself  to  say  at  last,  in  a  very 
gentle  tone,  "  that  you  cannot  care  for  me,  Alys.  I  thought 
I  could  have  made  you  happier.  I  should  have  taken  you 
out  of  this  house,  and  given  you  a  house  of  your  own.  But 
as  you  say  you  cannot " 

"I  cannot;  indeed,  I  cannot,"  she  cried,  desperately. 
"  Edmund,  don't  ask  me  again." 

He  looked  at  her  intently  for  a  few  seconds  before  he 
spoke.  "  I  am  not  sure,  Alys,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  you 
don't  care  for  me  a  little — more  than  you  know.  Don't  be 
angry  with  me  for  saying  so.  Forget  it,  and  let  me  be  your 
friend  still.  You  have  not  so  many  friends  that  you  can  af- 
ford to  throw  one  away." 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said,  sorrowfully.  "  Yes,  I  shall  be 
glad  of  your  friendship;  but  please — please  do  not  talk  to  me 
of  anything  else." 

"  Not  unless  you  give  me  leave." 

She  passed  over  this  remark  as  if  it  were  not  worth  no- 
tice. 

"  And  will  you  help  me  to  get  away  from  here  ?  I  don't 
mind  where  I  go.  I  believe  I  could  live  somewhere  for  a 
pound  a  week,  could  I  not  ?  I  have  more  than  that;  and  I 
should  not  want  very  much.  I  only  want  a  little  quiet  place 
— to  myself — where  I  could  be  happy " 

And  then  she  broke  down  again,  and  cried  unrestrained- 
ly. Edmund  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  stood  by 
her  with  an  aching  heart.  What  could  he  do  to  help  her  ? 
Oh,  why  had  he  said  nothing  to  her  on  that  November  after- 
noon in  Croyland  Square  ? 

He  consoled  her  at  last  by  promising  to  do  his  best  to 
find  her  a  new  home,  to  speak  to  his  father — everything  pos- 
sible and  impossible  that  occurred  to  him  by  way  of  com- 
fort, and  then  he  advised  her  to  go  to  bed,  as  she  was  quite 
worn  out;  and  Alys  obeyed,  being  only  too  glad  to  escape 
the  ordeal  of  dinner  downstairs  and  the  drawing-room  after- 
wards. 


AN    UNWELCOME  GUEST.  03 

She  had  a  bad  headache  next  day,  and  could  not  lift  her 
head  from  her  pillow;  but  Julian  waited  on  her  assiduously, 
and  Alys  conjectured  that  Edmund  had  interposed  on  her 
behalf,  for  Mrs.  Creighton  would  not  otherwise  have  allowed 
Julian  to  remain  beside  her.  In  the  evening  she  felt  well 
enough  to  dress  and  descend  to  the  schoolroom ;  and  when 
she  was  comfortably  settled  there,  to  her  infinite  astonish- 
ment Mr.  Creighton  was  announced. 

He  was  very  kind  in  manner,  commented  on  her  pale 
looks,  and  told  her  she  must  take  care  of  herself.  Atys  ex- 
pected him  to  speak  of  Edmund,  and  waited  with  red  cheeks 
for  the  moment  when  she  must  tell  him  that  she  had  refused 
his  son ;  but  the  lawyer  had  other  business  on  hand.  Ed- 
mund was  almost  independent  of  him,  and  he  was  not  going 
to  meddle  with  other  people's  love  affairs.  So,  after  a  little 
preparatory  humming  and  hawing,  he  began — 

"  I  have  some  notion,  my  dear,  that  you  are  not  quite  so 
comfortable  with  us  as  you  were  at  first.  Edmund  said 
something  about  your  wishing  to  find  another  place  of  resi- 
dence." 

"  You  have  been  very  kind  in  keeping  me  so  long,1'  said 
Alys,  resolutely,  "  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  Mrs. 
Creighton  and  yourself ;  but  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  I 
had  some  little  independent  p] ace  of  my  own." 

"  Seventy  or  eighty  pounds  a  year  will  not  get  you  much 
of  a  home,"  said  Mr.  Creighton.  "  But  another  home  might 
be  open  to  you.  You  will  remember  that  I  have  been  mak- 
ing inquiries  about  your  relations — your  step  relations,  that 
is  to  say :  your  father's  daughter,  who  is  entitled  to  an  equal 
portion  with  yourself." 

"  Have  you  found  her  ? "  said  Alys,  eagerly. 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  I  have.  But  you  must  not  expect  too 
much.  She  has  not,  perhaps,  had  the  advantages  you  have 
had.  Not  the  education,  you  know."  And  Mr.  Creighton 
nodded  significantly. 

"  I  know — I  understand,"  said  Alys.  "  But  tell  me  about 
her.     Have  you  heard  from  her  ? " 

"  My  first  intimation  from  her,"  said  the  lawyer,  slowly, 


(54  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  came  through  a  Mr.  Moor,  a  gentleman  of  good  family  in 
the  north  of  England,  who  is  acquainted  with  Miss — Miss 
Lorimer,  and  who  called  here  to  make  inquiries.  I  think 
you  saw  him :  he  was  in  the  drawing-room  for  a  few  minutes. 
I  brought  him  home  with  me  from  the  office." 

"I  remember,"  said  Alys,  looking  down.  She  remem- 
bered, because  the  man  with  the  soft  eyes  and  the  peaked 
beard  had  looked  at  her  so  persistently  that  she  had  thought 
him  rude.     His  stare  was  now  explained. 

"  Through  Mr.  Moor  I  have  been  put  into  communication 
with  Miss  Lorimer ;  and  I  have  to-day  received  a  letter  from 
her  which  I  am  requested  to  put  into  your  hands.  You  will 
note,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Creighton,  kindly,  "  that  there  may 
be  little  imperfections  of  expression  and  diction  which  must 
not  be  reckoned  against  her  too  heavily:  she  has  not  been 
brought  up  like  you.  Her  grandfather  was  a  yeoman  farm- 
er; and  I  believe  she  herself  now  manages  the  farm.  As 
you  will  see,  she  has  taken  her  grandfather's  name." 

Alys  slowly  opened  the  letter  that  he  had  placed  in  her 
hands.  She  could  not  help  seeing  that  the  paper  and  the 
envelope  were  poor  and  mean-looking;  and  that  the  hand- 
writing, though  clear,  was  not  what  we  call  an  "  educated  " 
hand.     She  read  the  letter,  therefore,  with  some  misgivings. 

It  was  very  short. 

"  Quest,  15th  May,  188— 

"  My  dear  Sister,— We  do  not  know  each  other ;  but  I 
think  it  is  time  we  became  better  acquainted.  Will  you 
come  down  to  Quest  for  a  few  weeks  or  months,  as  suits  you 
best  ?  We  have  plenty  of  room,  and  I  shall  be  ready  for 
you,  and  pleased  to  see  you  any  time. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"LlSBETH  VERRALL." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alys,  rising  from  her  seat,  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  sparkling  eyes.  "Yes,  I  will  go,  Mr.  Creighton;  will 
you  thank  Mrs.  Creighton  for  all  her  kindness  to  me,  and 
tell  her  that  I  am  going  to  my  sister  ?    To  my  sister — at 

Quest." 


CONDITIONS.  65 

CHAPTER  IX. 

CONDITIONS. 

"  So  she  is  coming,''  Frank  said,  slowly. 

"Have  you  anything  against  it  ?"  Lisbeth  asked,  with  a 
flash  of  her  dark,  large-pupilled  eyes. 

She  had  been  walking  to  the  village  of  Crosthwaite,  which 
stood  in  the  valley  beside  the  river,  and  looked  like  a  dream 
of  beauty  when  seen  from  Quest ;  and  Mr.  Francis  Moor  had 
joined  her  on  her  homeward  way.  She  had  tried  to  get  rid 
of  him,  for  she  had  a  conscientious  objection  to  doing  the 
thing  of  which  she  knew  that  Lady  Adela  would  disapprove, 
but  he  could  not  be  shaken  off.  He  beguiled  her  from  that 
subject  at  length  by  speaking  of  the  newly-found  half-sister, 
with  whom  Lisbeth  had  put  herself  into  communication. 

"  I  have  nothing  against  it— why  should  I  have  ?  I  am 
the  guilty  party,  since  I  insisted  on  interviewing  Mr. 
Creighton  ;  but  I  did  not  fancy  that  you  would  be  so  anxious 
to  see  her  immediately,  or  perhaps " 

He  hesitated,  and  Lisbeth  took  up  the  word. 

"  Or  that  she  would  be  so  ready  to  come  ? " 

Frank  laughed.  "  You  are  abnormally  clever,  Lisbeth. 
Well,  yes,  I  thought  that  London  would  be  more  attractive 
than  our  Cumberland  hills  to  a  young  lady  of  Miss  Lorimer's 
type." 

"  She  must  be  a  poor  creature  if  she  does  not  find  this 
better  than  London ! "  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  superb  wave  of 
her  hand  towards  hill  and  vale,  which  were  bathed  in  the 
glorious  sunlight  of  a  brilliant  June  evening.  She  stopped 
short  to  look  at  the  play  of  light  and  shade  on  a  distant  hill- 
side, and  the  flashing  of  a  stream  on  its  way  to  join  the 
river,  and  it  seemed  to  Frank— who  looked  at  her  face  rather 
than  at  the  landscape— as  if  sun  and  shadow  were  reflected 
in  her  eyes  and  on  her  noble  brow.  He  was  for  a  moment 
surprised  :  Lisbeth  did  not  often  put  her  emotions  into 
words. 


66  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  scarcely  knew  you  cared  so  much  for  poor  old  Cros- 
thwaite,"  he  said  lightly. 

She  turned  from  him  and  continued  her  walk  up  the 
rocky  uphill  road.  "  There's  no  place  like  home,"  she  said 
softly. 

"  Is  it  Quest  you  love,  then  ? " 

"  Quest — and  all  that's  round  it.  The  hills,  the  rivers, 
the  look  of  the  place,"  said  Lisbeth,  briefly.  "  No  other  spot 
would  be  the  same  to  me." 

"  Couldn't  you  care  for  Moor  End  a  little  ? "  said  Francis 
Moor,  in  a  lower  voice.  He  came  closer  to  her  as  he  spoke ; 
but  Lisbeth  only  quickened  her  pace  a  little,  and  went  on 
her  way  unmoved,  holding  her  head  high. 

"  I  like  Moor  End  very  well.  It's  a  fine  place,  and 
always  will  be,  so  long  as  one  stone  holds  to  another.  I 
don't  wonder  your  mother's  fond  of  it.11 

The  reference  to  his  mother  threw  Frank  out  a  little. 
He  believed  that  she  had  made  it  purposely. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Lisbeth " 

"  If  I  do,  Mr.  Frank,  you  ought  to  see  that  I  don't  want 
to  hear  any  more  about  it,"  said  Lisbeth,  sharply. 

"  But  that's  not  fair,"  Frank  rejoined.  "  You  might  hear 
a  fellow  out,  Lisbeth,  whatever  kind  of  answer  you  mean  to 
make  him.  You  know  well  enough  the  feeling  that  I  have 
for  you,  and  that  it  is  a  serious  one.  I  demand  a  hearing  as 
a  right — if  you  won't  give  it  me  as  a  favour."  His  voice 
dropped  during  the  last  few  words. 

Lisbeth  compressed  her  lips,  and  to  the  keen-eyed  ob- 
server at  her  side  it  seemed  as  though  she  turned  a  shade 
paler.  But  she  did  not  relax  her  rapid  pace,  nor  lower  her 
haughty  head. 

u  I've  told  you  before,"  she  said  resolutely,  "  that  I  didn't 
want  to  hear  talk  of  that  kind.  It's  not  fit,  between  you 
and  me.  Your  mother  would  have  good  cause  of  complaint 
against  me  if  I  gave  heed  to  it,  and  I  don't  mean  her  to  have 
that." 

"Has  she  spoken  to  you  ?"  said  Frank,  in  sudden  alarm. 

"No — not  direct,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  reluctant  honesty; 


CONDITIONS.  67 

"  but  I  know  what  she  means  as  well  as  most  folk.  '  I  want 
my  son  to  marry  some  one  who  will  love  Moor  End  as  1  do, 
and  help  to  restore  it,'  she  said  to  me  once.  Doesn't  that 
show  what  she  feels  about  your  marriage  ? " 

"  But,  Lisbeth,  you  would  love  Moor  End !  " 

"  I  might  love  it,  but  I  could  not  build  it  up  again." 

uAnd  is  this,"  said  Frank,  impetuously,  "your  only  rea- 
son for  refusing  to  listen  to  me  ? — that  you  cannot  rebuild  a 
ruin,  or  bring  money  to  the  man  whom  you  would  honour 
with  your  hand  ?    Is  that  all  ?  " 

uNo,  that  is  not  all/' 

Lisbeth's  eyes  wandered  to  the  distant  horizon ;  she  seemed 
to  be  looking  for  a  country  that  he  could  not  see— for  some 
unknown  future  which  she  was  quicker  to  read  than  was 
Francis  Moor. 

"  There  is  this  also,"  she  said,  resolutely ;  "  there  is  the 
unfitness  of  birth,  of  education " 

"  Not  of  birth,  Lisbeth.     Your  father  was  a  gentleman." 

"A  pretty  gentleman,  from  all  I  know  of  him!"  cried 
Lisbeth,  with  sudden  scorn.  Then  her  voice  softened  re- 
pentantly. kwI  ought  not  to  speak  against  him;  I  did  not 
mean  it — but  you  know  yourself,  Frank,  that  I  never  gained 
much  from  him.  What  good  did  he  ever  do  me  ?  Well,  he 
was  a  gentleman,  in  your  sense  of  the  word ;  but  he  did  not 
think  fit  to  teach  me  anything,  he  left  my  upbringing  to 
simple  folk,  he  let  me  grow  up  like  a  weed — and  a  girl  brought 
up  in  that  way  is  not  fit  to  live  amongst  gentry,  nor  to  be 
treated  by  one  of  them  as  if " 

Frank  interrupted  her  most  angrily.  u  Lisbeth,  you  shall 
not  say  these  things.  I  won't  say  that  I  see  in  you  merely 
my  equal,  but  you  are  my  superior;  you  know  you  are.  I 
always  feel  that  I  can  learn  from  you — that  I  could  depend 
on  you — if  you  were  my  wife  you  could  do  anything  with 
me." 

"And  is  that  how  a  husband  should  regard  his  wife?" 
Lisbeth  said,  hotly.  "I  should  like  a  husband  that  I  could 
depend  on  and  learn  from,  not  one  that  wanted  petting  and 
coaxing  like  a  child  by  its  mother." 


68  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Is  that  what  you  think  of  me  ?  Then,  indeed,  I  can 
have  no  hope." 

The  pain  in  his  voice  touched  Lisbeth  more  than  she 
would  acknowledge.  She  went  on  rapidly,  with  a  hot  flush 
on  her  dark  face — 

"  I  do  not  say  that  I  think  that  of  you.  But  you  put 
yourself  into  that  position  by  the  words  you  use.  You  talk 
of  depending  on  me.  Dont  you  think  you  have  depended 
on  other  people  too  long  already  ?  Why  don't  you  go  out 
into  the  world  and  work  for  yourself  ?  Why  are  you  always 
idling  away  your  time,  doing  nothing  but  playing  with  your 
fiddle  and  writing  verses  and  making  pretty  pictures  ?  Do 
you  call  that  work  fit  for  a  man  ? " 

Frank  stopped  short  in  the  road.  He  had  turned  rather 
white  about  the  lips. 

"  You  have  said  things  to  me  like  this  before,"  he  said, 
ubut  never  quite  so  plainly.  I  see  you  despise  me.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  Lisbeth :  we  cannot  even  be  friends  if  you  think 
so  badly  of  me." 

Lisbeth  was  obliged,  in  common  courtesy,  to  halt  in  her 
stately  march  along  the  road.  Perhaps  she  would  have 
held  her  position  better  if  she  could  have  gone  on.  But  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  in  spite  of  her  resolution 
there  was  a  quiver  of  her  lip. 

"  You  are  wrong— I  don't  think  badly  of  you,"  she  said. 
u  I  only  want  you  to  see  what  you  might  do — and  what  you 
don't." 

"  Then  you  take  an  interest  in  me  after  all  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  curious  difficulty  of  speech 
— a  nervous  contraction  of  her  throat,  that  made  her 
voice  low  and  thick,  "  yes— I  take— an  interest  in  you — Mr. 
Moor." 

"  Then — if  T  were  to  do  what  you  wish— work  and  prove 
myself  a  man — you  would  perhaps " 

His  eyes  were  shining,  tbe  colour  had  come  back  to  his 
face  with  a  rush :  he  held  out  his  hand  towards  her.  But 
Lisbeth  drew  back. 

"No— no,"  she  said  abruptly;  " I  did  not  mean  that." 


CONDITIONS.  09 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  keenly ;  he  bad  wit  enough 
to  note  that  there  was  more  softness  in  her  eyes  than  her 
words  justified.  He  drew  nearer,  and  spoke  in  a  different 
tone. 

"Lisbeth,  you  are  always  true  and  faithful,"  he  said. 
"Be  true  to  yourself  and  me.  Isn't  it  possible  that  you 
might  some  day  care  for  me  ? " 

He  was  very  near  the  truth.  But  Lisbeth  made  a  violent 
effort  to  retain  her  self-command. 

"  Not  in  that  way,"  she  said,  stiffly  and  drily. 

"  Not  as  a  lover— a  husband  ? " 

She  wanted  to  say  "  No."  But  for  a  woman  of  three-and- 
twenty,  who  has  never  told  a  lie  in  all  her  life,  to  begin  with 
an  absolute  falsehood  is  too  great  a  plunge.  Lisbeth  opened 
her  lips,  shut  them  again,  and  temporised. 

u  I  would  rather  think  of  you  as  a  friend,"  she  said. 

Frank  sighed  and  drew  back.  "  You  are  a  cold-hearted 
woman,  Lisbeth.  You  do  not  mind  how  much  you  hurt 
me.     You  take  from  me  my  only  motive  for  ambition." 

"  And  for  work  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  with  sudden  impatience, 
which  came  chiefly  from  the  sting  of  her  own  pain.  "  Have 
you  not  your  mother  to  think  of — and  Moor  End  ?  " 

She  turned  from  him  with  a  swing  of  her  handsome 
shoulders,  a  haughty  uplifting  of  her  handsome  chin.  As 
she  walked  along  the  road  her  lips  were  set  closely  together, 
her  eyebrows  levelled  in  a  dark  frown.  She  did  not  look 
like  a  very  amiable  woman — like  a  woman  born  submissive 
and  gentle,  as  women  are  supposed  to  be.  She  had  never 
been  given  much  opportunity  of  learning  these  humbler 
virtues:  from  her  birth  she  bad  been  queen  of  those  around 
her — from  her  veriest  infancy  mistress  of  Quest. 

So  she  strode  on  proudly  ;  and  Francis  Moor,  angry, 
wounded,  more  sorely  hurt  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his 
life  before,  stood  in  the  road  where  she  had  left  him,  scarce- 
ly knowing  whether  to  advance  or  to  retreat.  Pride  and 
wounded  feeling  won  the  day.  He  turned  at  last,  and  de- 
liberately retraced  his  steps  to  Crosthwaite.  It  was  not  for 
his  manhood,  he  thought,  to  humiliate  himself  further  in 


70  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

Lisbeth 's  eyes.  It  was  plain  that  she  wished  to  dismiss  him, 
and  he  would  not  trouble  her  again. 

He  might  have  thought  differently  if  he  had  seen  Lis- 
beth's face  ten  minutes  after  she  had  left  him.  At  first  the 
frown  seemed  stamped  upon  it ;  gradually  the  frown  passed 
into  an  expression  of  deep  pain,  and  finally  the  tears  filled 
her  eyes,  overflowed,  and  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  She 
was  forced,  then,  to  pause  for  a  minute  or  two.  Frank  was 
well  out  of  sight,  and  she  was  drawing  near  to  Quest:  it 
would  never  do  to  be  seen  by  her  man  servants  and  maid 
servants  with  tears  upon  her  face.  There  was  a  bank  on  one 
side  of  the  road:,  she  sat  down,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  haw- 
thorn bush,  and  wiped  the  tears  away,  but  in  a  furtive  man- 
ner, as  if  even  there  she  feared  that  she  should  be  observed. 
She  had  a  strangely  weak  feeling,  as  if  she  had  in  some  way 
done  a  thing  that  was  a  little  beyond  her  strength,  and  over- 
strained herself. 

She  had  some  reason  for  thinking  that  she  was  observed. 
She  knew  Zadock's  habits  well.  He  had  a  trick  of  haunting 
her  footsteps,  of  following  her  at  a  little  distance  like  a 
watch-dog;  and  during  her  walk  from  Crosthwaite  he  had 
been  tracking  her  on  the  green  hill  side,  never  once  proceed- 
ing by  the  road,  but  keeping  alongside,  at  about  fifty  yards 
distance  from  her,  so  that  in  case  of  necessity  he  might  be 
at  hand.  Not  that  there  ever  was  any  necessity  for  his 
presence:  Lisbeth  was  as  strong  as  he,  and  quite  capable  of 
defending  herself  against  any  assault  of  tramp  or  highway- 
man ;  but  she  had  grown  used  to  Zadock's  silent  and  stealthy 
companionship,  and  counted  upon  it  unconsciously.  Even 
as  she  dried  her  tears,  she  looked  round  for  him — with  a 
little  trouble  and  apprehension,  to  be  sure — and  there  he  was 
already  at  her  side. 

"  What's  wrong  ? "  he  asked,  in  the  thick  guttural  tones 
which  were  almost  unintelligible  to  any  one  save  Lisbeth 
herself. 

"Nothing,  Zadock." 

"  Thee  be  cryin'.  'Tis  that  theer  squoire,  it  be.  Zadock'll 
larn  'im." 


CONDITIONS.  71 

"  Rubbish !  "  said  Lisbeth,  with  great  sharpness.  u  'Tis 
no  such  thing,  Zadock,  an'  thee'll  be  pleased  to  hold  tha 
tongue." 

She  always  relapsed  into  dialect  when  she  talked  to 
Zadock:  it  did  not  seem  as  if  he  could  understand  her  when 
she  used  the  finer  accent  which  she  had  partly  learned  at 
school  and  partly  copied  from  Francis  Moor. 

The  young  man  was  silent.  He  stood  on  the  shelving 
bank  beside  her,  leaning  upon  a  great  oaken  staff  which  he 
had  planted  firmly  in  the  short  thick  turf.  His  broad  shoul- 
ders, his  shaggy  head,  his  rough  garments,  gave  him  an 
oddly  wild  and  almost  savage  appearance,  not  lessened  by 
the  ferocious  gleam  that  showed  itself  for  a  moment  in  his 
blue  eyes  as  he  growled  out  a  sullen  threat. 

"If  squoire  hurts  tha,  Zadock'll  kill'n  dead." 

u  Squire  won't  hurt  me,"  said  Lisbeth,  bursting  into  a 
sudden  laugh ;  "  and  Zadock  needn't  be  such  a  fool." 

But  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  as  she  rose  from  her 
lowly  seat  and  touched  his  arm  lovingly. 

"Poor  old  Zadock!  Be  good  to  Lisbeth,  Zadock."  It  was 
the  one  admonition  that  had  any  effect  upon  the  darkened 
mind  of  the  poor  faithful  fool. 

He  received  the  caress  with  evident  pleasure,  smiling 
broadly  from  ear  to  ear,  and  the  sullen  darkness  passed  from 
his  face  like  a  cloud.  Lisbeth  also  smoothed  her  brows,  and 
prepared  to  walk  homeward  with  her  usual  composure  of 
manner. 

She  was  a  little  abstracted,  however,  and  did  not  notice 
that  Zadock  kept  turning  his  head  uneasily  in  one  direction, 
as  if  he  heard  something  that  disturbed  him.  Not  till  Lis- 
beth stopped  at  her  own  gate  did  she  also  remark  the  sound. 
"  There's  a  carriage  on  the  road,"  she  said.  "  Coming  up 
here,  too !  It's  late  for  people  from  Crosthwaite  to  be  taking 
a  drive." 

The  highway,  on  which  she  could  see  the  vehicle,  formed 
part  of  a  favourite  drive  usually  taken  by  the  few  tourists 
who  came  that  way.  The  road  or  lane  that  led  to  Quest 
diverged  at  right  angles  from  the  highway,  and  was  narrow 


72  THE   MISTRESS  OF   QUEST. 

and  grass-grown  between  low  stone  walls.  Lisbeth,  watch- 
ing from  the  doorway,  expected  the  carriage  to  pass  this 
turning ;  but  to  her  great  surprise  it  turned  into  the  lane. 

"  It's  coming  here.    Who  can  it  be  ?  "  she  said  to  herself. 

Then  her  face  flushed.  "It  must  be— it  must  be,"  she 
muttered.  "  I've  mistaken  the  day,  like  the  great  dolt  that 
I  am.  It's  the  girl,  as  sure  as  I  live.  And  not  half  the 
things  ready,  nor  the  parlour  cleaned  up  or  anything.  If 
it  had  only  been   to-morrow — what  will    she  think  of  us 

all?" 

There  was  not  the  slightest  occasion  for  Lisbeth  to  dis- 
tress herself  either  about  the  cleaning  of  the  parlour  or  any 
other  household  detail ;  but  it  was  part  of  her  tradition  that 
every  nook  and  corner,  how  clean  soever  it  might  already 
be,  should  be  scrubbed  and  rubbed,  and  polished  and  brushed 
in  preparation  for  any  honoured  guest.  And  although  Alys 
Lorimer  was  expected  later  in  the  week,  Lisbeth  considered 
that  the  place  was  by  no  means  fit  for  her  as  yet. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything  except  stand  helplessly 
at  the  door  and  wait  for  the  arrival  of  the  station  fly,  with 
its  load  of  boxes  on  the  roof.  It  halted  at  the  gate  in  order 
to  allow  its  occupant  to  get  out;  and  Lisbeth  saw  a  slim 
figure  in  black,  with  a  slightly  limping  gait,  approach  her. 
She  waited  a  moment  for  the  stranger  to  speak  first. 

uAre  you  my  sister  Elizabeth?"  Alys  Lorimer  asked, 
putting  out  two  trembling  hands. 

Lisbeth  took  her  into  her  arms,  and  kissed  her  before  she 
replied.  And  with  that  fond  embrace  she  also  took  her  for 
ever  into  the  depths  of  her  capacious  heart.  The  word  "  sis- 
ter "  took  her  by  storm. 


IN  THE  MOONLIGHT.  73 

CHAPTER  X. 

IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

The  oak  parlour  was  Lady  Adela  Moor's  favourite  sit- 
ting-room at  Moor  End.  It  was  a  sombre-looking  apart- 
ment, for  the  wood  with  which  it  was  panelled  had  turned 
almost  black  with  time,  and  a  brilliant  light  would  have 
been  needed  before  the  eye  could  appreciate  the  marvels  of 
carving  which  adorned  the  high  mantelpiece  and  various 
articles  of  furniture  about  the  room.  This  brilliant  light 
was,  however,  seldom  to  be  procured.  The  windows  faced 
southeast,  and  at  mid-day,  no  doubt,  sunshine  might  stream 
into  the  room;  but  the  windows  themselves  were  narrow 
and  deeply  set  in  the  massive  thickness  of  the  outer  wall, 
and  the  panes  were  small  and  of  ancient  greenish  glass,  with 
a  patch  of  colour  here  and  there.  Only  when,  in  the  height 
of  summer,  they  were  flung  wide  open,  could  air  and  sun- 
shine penetrate  the  dim  recesses  of  Lady  Adela's  sanctum ; 
and,  even  then,  the  pushing  sprays  of  rose  and  jessamine, 
with  which  that  side  of  the  house  was  overgrown,  veiled  the 
light  of  heaven  with  a  hase  of  greenery. 

Yet  Lady  Adela  loved  the  room.  She  was  conservative 
at  heart,  and  loved  old  ways,  old  habits,  old  memories ;  and 
the  ladies  of  Moor  End  who  had  lived  there  before  her  had 
all  made  the  oak  room  their  favourite  resting-place.  There 
were  miniatures  upon  the  walls,  mostly  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  the  former  masters  of  Moor  End ;  and  Lady 
Adela  liked  to  sit  among  them  and  dream  at  times  of  the 
daughters  that  Frank  would  give  her,  and  the  new  minia- 
ture which  would  then  be  placed  upon  the  wall.  Her  own 
hung  there  already,  in  white  satin,  as  a  bride. 

The  June  evening  was  so  warm,  the  moonlight  so  clear 
and  steady,  that  she  had  not  lighted  the  wax  candles  in  their 
silver  sconces,  nor  even  the  pretty  lamp  in  modern  brass 
and  copper  work  which  Frank  had  bought  for  her  in  Lon- 
don, and  which  she  secretly  and  silently  despised  for  its 


7J:  THE  MISTRESS  OF   QUEST. 

newness.  She  liked  the  moonlight,  and  it  was  an  economy 
not  to  burn  candles.  So  she  sat  quietly,  looking  out  at  the 
fantastic  shadows  on  the  pathway,  and  trying  to  disguise 
from  herself  the  fact  that  she  was  anxious  because  her  son 
Francis  had  not  come  home  to  dinner. 

She  seldom  called  him  Frank, — only  in  moments  of  ex- 
pansion, and  when  mother  and  son  were  quite  alone  to- 
gether. Francis  had  been  a  favourite  name  among  the 
Moors,  and  she  loved  it  for  the  sake  of  his  ancestors.  She 
had  come  of  a  noble  race,  but  she  seemed  to  have  identified 
herself  thoroughly  with  the  family — ruined  and  impover- 
ished as  it  was — into  which  she  had  married ;  and — although. 
Frank  was  not  man  of  the  world  enough  to  notice  it — she 
never  in  her  life  made  an  open  comparison  between  the 
glories  of  her  own  old  home  and  the  meagre ness  and  the 
poverty  of  Moor  End.  She  had  given  up  the  Willoughbys: 
she  was  a  Moor,  like  her  husband  and  her  son. 

Francis  was  not  often  absent  at  the  dinner  hour  without 
sending  her  an  explanatory  message.  He  was  very  fond  of 
his  mother,  and  considerate  of  her  comfort.  But  on  this  occa- 
sion he  had  gone  out  without  saying  whither  he  was  bound, 
or  when  he  meant  to  return ;  and  Lady  Adela,  calm  as  she 
looked,  was  very  anxious  in  her  mind. 

She  had  been  a  lovely  woman :  she  was  a  graceful  woman 
still.  Her  fine  white  skin  was  almost  unwrinkled,  her 
bronze  hair  almost  untouched  by  time ;  her  quiet  brown  eyes, 
with  the  drooping  eyelids,  which  gave  a  slight  haughtiness 
to  her  expression,  were  still  soft  and  bright.  But  she  had 
never  altered  her  widow's  garb;  and  the  long  floating  cap- 
strings,  as  well  as  the  sombre  hue  of  her  dress,  gave  her  a 
peculiar  dignity  of  bearing,  quite  irrespective  of  her  age. 

At  last  the  well-known  step  was  heard.  She  thought  it 
was  heavier  and  slower  than  usual,  and  she  turned  her  face 
anxiously  to  the  door.  It  opened  to  admit  her  son ;  and  he 
spoke  at  once  in  his  accustomed  tones— perhaps,  even,  with 
a  sort  of  gaiety  which  struck  her  as  a  little  forced. 

"  Why,  mother !  All  in  the  dark !  I  never  saw  any  one 
with  such  a  taste  for  midnight  gloom! " 


IN  THE   MOONLIGHT.  75 

"  Do  you  call  it  gloom  when  this  lovely  moon  is  shining? " 
she  asked,  as  he  came  to  her  side  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek.  Was  it  only  the  moonlight  that  made  him  look  so 
pale? 

u  Ah!— the  moon!  Well,  it  is  glorious,  I  acknowledge. 
I've  had  a  long  walk — over  the  hills:  I  hope  you  did  *  not 
wait  dinuer  for  me,  mother;  I  must  beg  your  pardon  for 
running  away." 

"  I  did  not  wait,  dear :  I  knew  you  would  be  here  as  soon 
as  you  could.     But  have  you  had  no  dinner  ?  " 

Frank  laughed — a  little  harshly,  she  thought.  "  I  had 
aU  I  wanted :  my  appetite  was  quite  satisfied,  thank  you. 
Yes,  really  " — as  she  murmured  a  suggestion  about  the  din- 
ing-room— "I  had  some  ale  at  the  Three  Kings,  an  old-fash- 
ioned little  place  at  Cardew ;  ale  and  bread  and  cheese,  and 
I  want  nothing  more." 

"  Nothing  ?  You  are  quite  sure — after  that  long  walk, 
Francis  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  thank  you.  I'm  a  little  tired — I  think  I 
shall  go  to  bed  soon." 

He  was  standing  beside  her,  with  his  hand  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair.  She  laid  her  own  upon  it  in  a  mute  caress.  Per- 
haps it  touched  him,  for  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  drew 
another  chair  forward  and  seated  himself  at  her  side,  oppo- 
site the  window,  so  that  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon  his 
face.  Probably  he  was  not  aware  of  this  fact;  but  Lady 
Adela  was  glad  of  it :  she  had  a  watchful  eye  for  the  changes 
of  his  countenance. 

"  Would  you  like  the  candles  lighted,  dear  ? " 

"  No,  thanks :  the  moonlight  is  very  jolly.  I  like  it  al- 
most as  well  as  you  do,  I  think." 

"It  is  a  magnificent  night." 

There  was  a  little  silence  again.  The  mother  was  vaguely 
conscious  that  something  strange  and  novel  was  in  the  air: 
that  her  son  was  inwardly  disturbed  for  reasons  which  she 
could  not  fathom.  Was  he  going  to  tell  her  his  trouble,  or 
was  he  not  ? 

kk  Mother,"  he  said  at  length,  his  voice  breaking  abruptly 


76  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

upon  the  luminous  silence  of  the  night,  "I  have  something 
to  say." 

"  Yes,  Francis  ? " 

"  We  have  talked  from  time  to  time  of  my  going  away. 
Of  getting  an  appointment,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing."  He 
stopped  short,  suddenly,  as  if  he  did  not  know  how  to  con- 
tinue. 

"  Of  course,  dear  boy.  Whenever  anything  suitable  is 
found  for  you  I  must  let  you  go,"  said  Lady  Adela,  ten- 
derly. 

kt  Mother,  I  think  I  can't  wait  for  the  suitable  thing.  I 
must  go  as  soon  as  I  can." 

The  mother's  fears  were  stirred.  She  caught  at  her  son's 
arm,  nervously.     "  There  is  nothing  wrong,  Frank  ? " 

"  Nothing  to  make  you  unhappy,  mother. " 

"  But  you  are  unhappy  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  that,"  said  Frank,  quickly.  "  Don't  ask 
me  any  questions  just  now.  I  have  a  reason  for  going — but 
there  is  nothing  wrong.  I  see  now  that  I  ought  to  have 
gone  long  ago." 

He  sat  brooding  over  the  thought;  and  Lady  Adela 
watched  him  with  a  beating  heart,  but  a  firm  determination 
not  to  probe  or  question  him  unless  he  seemed  to  wish  her 
to  do  so.  She  was  a  wise  woman,  and  knew  that  pain  dies 
away  more  easily  when  it  is  not  spoken  about.  And  she 
divined  the  pain  that  gave  her  son  his  reason  for  going  away. 

"  I  have  wasted  a  good  deal  of  time,"  Frank  said,  pres- 
ently, with  a  great  sigh.     u  I  wonder  what  I  can  do  now  ?  " 

"  Lord  Mountford  spoke  of  the  diplomatic  service." 

"  Things  cannot  be  got  by  interest  nowadays,  and  I'm 
afraid  I  should  have  a  poor  chance  at  an  examination." 

kfc  You  might  run  up  to  London  and  see  Lord  Mount- 
ford,"  suggested  Lady  Adela,  rather  faintly.  She  was  never 
desirous  that  her  son  should  leave  her  when  it  came  to  the 
point.     But  he  took  up  the  idea  with  some  eagerness. 

u  Yes— yes,  I  might,  I'll  go  to-morrow,  if  you  don't 
mind,  mother.  Mountford's  a  good  old  boy :  he  might  sug- 
gest something.     And — mother " 


IN  THE  MOONLIGHT.  77 

"  Yes,  Frank  ? " 

"  You  won't  mind  if  I  say — that  I  shall  aceept  the  first 
thing-  that  offers — suitable  or  not  ?  " 

Lady  Adela  made  a  little  sound  of  dismay.  Then — "  Oh, 
my  boy,  has  it  gone  so  deep  with  you  ?  "  she  said,  in  spite  of 
all  her  resolutions. 

Frank  rose  and  stood  leaning  against  the  window-sill, 
with  his  face  turned  away  from  her. 

44  I'm  not  sure  that  I  know — no,  I  won't  say  that — I  do 
know  what  you  mean.  She  won't  have  anything  to  say  to 
me,  mother;  and — it  has— it  has — cut  me — rather." 

It  was  impossible  to  keep  the  tremor  out  of  his  voice,  and 
tears  of  sympathy  rose  to  his  mother's  eyes,  although  she 
was  devoutly  thankful  that  Lisbeth  Verrall  had  justified  the 
trust  reposed  in  her. 

"  My  dear  boy !  But  if  she  does  not  care  for  you — you 
know  she  is  not  of  our  class  and — excellent  as  she  is " 

uOh,  yes;  of  course,  I  know  you  would  be  pleased,"  said 
Frank,  rather  savagely.  kt  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you— but 
it  seems  you  guessed." 

"  I  am  not  pleased  at  anything  which  gives  you  pain," 
said  Lady  Adela. 

Frank  turned  round.  "Mother!  Would  you  not  help 
me  then  ?  I  believe  half  her  reason  for  rejecting  me  is  that 
she  thinks  you  would  object.  If  only  you  would  go  to  her 
and  plead  my  cause " 

"  I  go  to  her  ?  My  dear  boy ! "  said  Lady  Adela,  laugh- 
ing, and  almost  crying  in  her  mixture  of  amusement  and 
dismay.  "  I  am  not  anxious  to  see  you  marry  the  Mistress 
of  Quest ! " 

"Oh,  I  understand!"  said  her  son,  stiffly.  He  moved 
into  the  darkness  that  hid  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  stood 
there  with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  "  You  are  sorry 
that  I  am  pained,  and  yet  you  will  do  nothing  to  prevent  it. 
It  is  hardly  logical,  I  think." 

"  Dear  Frank,  I  did  not  mean  to  grieve  you.  But  you 
know,  without  my  saying  so,  that  there  are  objections." 

"  I  don't  see  them.  Her  father  was  a  gentleman.  She  is 
6 


Y8  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

very  beautiful— all  the  world  acknowledges  that.  She  is 
good,  clever,  not  badly  off— I  do  not  see  how  you  can  wish 
for  a  better  daughter-in-law.11 

"I  would  rather  not  discuss  it,  dear,"  said  Lady  Adela, 
with  elaborate  gentleness.  "And — there  seems  to  be  no 
need." 

"  Because  she  has  refused  me,  you  mean  ?  Or  rather,  she 
would  not  listen  to  me.  I  believe  she  would  listen,"  said 
Frank,  with  kindJing  vehemence,  "  if  only  she  thought  you 
would  approve !     Mother — mother,  could  you  not  ? " 

"  My  dear  Frank,  it  is  quite  impossible.  And,  besides,  I 
think  Miss  Verrall  is  a  woman  who  knows  her  own  mind." 

This  was  a  statement  he  could  not  gainsay ;  and  he  sighed, 
therefore,  but  was  silent. 

"  It  will  perhaps  be  a  good  thing,"  said  his  mother,  sooth- 
ingly, "  for  you  to  go  to  Lord  Mountford  and  talk  to  him 
about  your  future.  He  may  be  able  to  do  something  for 
you." 

"Anything  to  get  away!  to  work  for  myself!"  said 
Frank,  almost  fiercely.  "  I  have  wasted  my  life  long  enough. " 

He  turned  to  le.- ve  the  room ;  but,  moved  by  some  softer 
impulse,  came  back  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead. 

"  Good-night,  mother.  I  hope  I  have  not  said  too  much. 
You  must  forgive  me." 

She  was  only  too  ready  to  forgive.  She  wept  bitterly 
over  her  boy's  pain  and  sorrow  when  she  was  alone;  and 
yet  she  rejoiced.  Elizabeth  Verrall  had  behaved  nobly,  she 
said  to  herself;  and  she  would  take  an  early  opportunity  of 
showing  her  appreciation.  She  did  not  realise  that  any  such 
mark  of  approbation  would  be  particularly  offensive  to  Lis- 
beth. 

Francis  Moor  carried  out  his  designs.  He  was  up  early, 
packed  his  own  portmanteau,  and  drove  in  the  pony-cart — 
the  only  vehicle  he  possessed — to  the  station.  "  I  shall  not 
come  back  again,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  half  defiantly, 
"until  I  have  found  something  to  do." 

Lady  Adela  occupied  herself  all  the  morning  in  writing 


IN   THE   MOONLIGHT.  79 

long  letters  to  her  most  influential  friends.  Lord  Mount- 
ford  was  a  distant  cousin,  and  might  be  expected  to  be  kind ; 
but  whether  he  would  be  effective  as  well  as  kind  she  could 
not  be  sure.  It  was  just  as  well  to  write  to  him,  and  to 
others  of  his  degree,  concerning  Frank's  requirements. 

When  two  or  three  days  had  elapsed,  she  went  to  call  on 
Elizabeth.  But,  whether  by  accident  or  design,  Lisbeth  did 
not  appear — could  not  be  found  anywhere.  Lady  Adela 
had  to  come  away  without  seeing  her.  But  she  had  her  re- 
ward. She  saw,  as  she  said  afterwards,  the  most  perfect 
dream  of  beauty  that  she  had  ever  yet  beheld. 

A  girl  in  white,  sitting  on  the  doorstep— that  was  all. 
But  a  girl  whose  grave,  sweet,  delicate  loveliness  quite  fas- 
cinated Lady  Adela.  The  soft  golden  hair,  the  tender  tint- 
ing of  the  complexion,  the  graceful  poise  of  the  dainty 
limbs,  were  perfection  in  her  eyes.  It  was  exactly  the  kind 
of  beauty  Lady  Adela  admired. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ? "  she  speculated,  as  she  drove  back  to 
Moor  End.  "  A  lodger,  I  suppose.  I  did  not  know  that  the 
Verrall's  would  take  lodgers— I  thought  they  were  above 
that.  The  girl  looks  like  a  lady.  ...  It  is  just  as  well  that 
Frank  is  away,  poor  boy;  for  a  man's  heart  is  sometimes 
caught  at  the  rebound,  and  one  does  not  know  who  this  girl 
can  be.  Surely  not  a  village  beauty :  she  has  a  look  of  ex- 
traordinary refinement." 

It  was  thus  that  she  thought  of  Alys  Lorimer;  but  she 
did  not  find  out  for  some  time  the  relationship  that  existed 
between  the  girl  and  her  step-sister,  Lisbeth. 

The  days  went  on,  and  she  did  not  hear  very  encourag- 
ing reports  of  Frank's  search  for  employment.  Lord  Mount- 
ford  had  shaken  his  head  and  spoken  of  the  impossibility  of 
getting  anything  now-a-days  except  through  competitive 
examination;  and  Frank  was  by  no  means  qualified  for 
such  a  test.  But  he  had  been  very  kind  to  Frank — had 
asked  him  to  his  house,  and  introduced  him  to  a  great  many 
people,  and  Lady  Adela  proudly  hoped  that  Frank  might 
fall  in  love  with  an  heiress,  and  write  home  that  he  was 
going  to  be  married  before  the  end  of  the  season. 


80  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  That  is  just  what  would  suit  Frank  best,"  she  said  to 
herself;  for  although  she  was  Frank's  mother,  she  was  not 
lacking  in  discrimination.  uHe  has  not  enough  energy  to 
work  without  a  personal  motive:  he  will  never  succeed  in 
anything  that  requires  routine.  But  he  would  make  an 
excellent  county  gentleman — an  excellent  proprietor!  If 
only  we  had  the  money,  what  a  fine  place  Moor  End  might 
be!" 

And  as  Lady  Adela  wandered  restlessly  along  the  echo- 
ing passages,  and  in  and  out  of  the  old-fashioned  rooms,  she 
saw  visions  of  restored  glories  and  new  splendours  which 
made  her  heart  ache  with  longing.  The  love  of  a  house  is 
sometimes  as  absorbing  as  the  love  of  a  man.  Lady  Adela 
had  a  passion  for  Moor  End. 

At  last  she  had  a  letter  from  Frank,  couched  in  more 
cheerful  terms  than  any  of  his  previous  epistles. 

'k  I  have  had  luck  at  last,"  he  said.  "  Mountford  has  in- 
troduced me  to  a  friend  of  his  who  wants  a  private  secre- 
tary. He  is  rather  an  eccentric  person — Lord  Raynflete,  of 
whom  you  have  probably  heard — a  philanthropist,  and 
something  of  a  literary  man.  He  is  very  wealthy,  but  lives 
with  great  simplicity,  and  has  a  most  wonderful  library 
at  one  of  his  houses,  and  a  splendid  private  gallery  at 
another.  He  wants  somebody  to  be  a  kind  of  companion,  I 
believe :  to  write  his  letters  and  talk  literary  gossip  to  him 
— at  least,  that  is  all  I  have  heard  mentioned  at  present,  and 
it  does  not  sound  much ;  but  Mountford  says  it  is  an  excel- 
lent opening,  and  that  I  may  get  fairly  launched  in  either 
literary  or  political  life  through  Raynflete's  help. 

"  I  have  not  seen  the  old  fellow  yet,  but  we  have  cor- 
responded, and  I  must  say  I  like  his  letters.  I  suppose  he  is 
not  really  old,  but  one  thinks  of  him  as  an  antique,  some- 
how or  other.  If  he  engages  me,  he  won't  want  me  till 
September,  so  you  will  have  me  back  on  your  hands  for  a 
couple  of  months." 

Lady  Adela  laid  down  the  letter  and  sighed.  She  did 
not  like  the  proposed  situation  at  all.  It  seemed  to  her 
ridiculous  for  Frank  to  accept  it.    Yet — as  Mountford  recom- 


THE  NEW  LIFE. 


81 


mended  it,  it  must  be  worth  having.  Frank  said  nothing 
about  salary.  She  earnestly  hoped  that  he  did  not  mean  to 
accept  one.  She  would  not  mind  his  doing  the  work  for 
nothing. 

She  took  down  the  Peerage  from  a  shelf,  and  looked  up 
Lord  Eaynflete.  "Seventh  baron:  three  country  houses: 
one  in  town.  Age,  thirty-seven.  Unmarried."  LadyAdela 
smiled. 

"  Silly  boy  !  "  she  murmured,  thinking  of  Frank's  expres- 
sions. "  Old,  indeed  !  Why,  the  man  will  probably  marry 
in  six  months.  I  see  he  only  succeeded  to  the  title  three 
years  ago— which  accounts  for  my  not  knowing  anything 
about  him.  But  I  should  hardly  think  that  he  would  want 
a  '  male  companion '  very  long. "  And  Lady  Adela  put  away 
the  volume,  feeling  vaguely  relieved. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  NEW  LIFE. 

Alys  Lorimer  experienced  a  new  sensation. 

She  had  scarcely  ever  known  what  it  was  to  be  taken  in 
any  one's  arms,  and  caressed  in  the  motherly  fashion  which 
Lisbeth  involuntarily  adopted.  She  was,  indeed,  just  the 
sort  of  delicate  flower-like  girl  whom  many  a  woman  would 
have  been  pleased  to  pet  and  fondle;  but  the  circumstances 
of  her  life  had  precluded  her  from  any  such  indulgences. 
From  the  time  when  she  began  to  be  useful  and  compan- 
ionable—an extremely  early  age — her  father  had  monopo- 
lised her  time,  her  interest,  and  her  affections,  save  for  the 
few  months  that  she  had  spent  at  school. 

Since  his  death,  all  had  been  changed,  indeed.  She  had 
discovered  that  her  father's  affection  for  her  had  been  sin- 
gularly selfish,  and  founded  on  absolute  disregard  of  the 
claims  of  others :  he  had  left  her,  with  what  seemed  to  her  a 
mere  pittance,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  cold  and  unsym- 


g2  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

pathising  world.  In  her  desolation  she  had  taken  refuge  at 
the  Creightons  only  to  find  that  they  (with  the  exception  of 
Edmund  and  Julian)  cared  for  her  no  longer  when  she  was 
poor:  and  she  had  hailed  the  letter  from  her  unknown  sister 
with  a  joy  largely  miugled  with  fear,  lest  this  new  relation- 
ship should  also  turn  out  to  be  a  delusion. 

It  did  not  seem  to  be  one.  Lisbeth's  greeting  was  ex- 
quisitely tender — perhaps  all  the  more  so  because  she  had  so 
few  people  to  whom  she  could  show  tenderness.  Alys  felt 
at  home  with  her  at  once. 

The  driver  of  the  station-cab  asked  a  question  about  the 
boxes ;  and  Miss  Verrall  bidding  Alys  step  inside  the  house, 
came  forward  to  answer  him.  But  as  Alys  entered  the  rather 
narrow  passage,  she  met  with  an  unexpected  shock.  It  was 
Zadock's  wild  figure  that  confronted  her,  his  rough  mop  of 
hair  and  the  heavy  staff  in  his  hand  making  him  terrible  to 
the  timid  girl.  He  said  something  which  she  could  not 
understand,  and  almost  fancying  that  she  had  come  across  a 
madman,  she  shrank  away  from  him  with  signs  of  unmis- 
takable affright. 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Zadock's  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
see  people  show  signs  of  alarm  at  his  appearance.  This  was 
the  one  thing  that  irritated  him  almost  to  madness.  He 
shook  his  staff  violently  at  the  girl,  who  again  recoiled,  and 
chattered  so  angrily  and  so  unintelligibly  that  Lisbeth,  when 
she  turned  back,  found  Alys  almost  ready  to  faint  with  ter- 
ror, and  trying  to  hide  herself  behind  the  open  door. 

"Zadock,  you  are  naughty  !"  she  said,  with  severity;  and 
Zadock  slunk  away  like  a  whipped  hound,  and  disappeared 
into  the  kitchen  regions.  "  Did  he  frighten  you  ?  You 
poor  child  !  "  said  Lisbeth.  "  He  doesn't  mean  anything;  he 
did  not  know  who  you  were,  and  one  can't  explain  to  him 
very  well." 

Then,  finding  that  Alys  still  looked  white  and  tremulous, 
to  the  girl's  great  astonishment  Lisbeth  simply  took  her  up 
in  her  strong  arms  like  a  baby,  and  carried  her  bodily  into 
the  sitting-room,  where  she  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  and  pres- 
ently brought  her  something  hot  and  strong  to  drink,  after 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  83 

which  Alys  coughed,  laughed,  and  sat  up  again,  feeling  quite 
revived. 

"You  must  not  mind  him,"  said  Lisbeth,  solicitously. 
" He  does  no  one  any  harm." 

''Who  is  he?" 

"  Well,  he  is  my  step-uncle,  but  I  treat  him  like  a  brother 
or  a  cousin;  he  was  the  same  relation  to  my  mother  that 
you  are  to  me." 

"  And  he  lives  here  ? "  Alys  repressed  a  little  shudder  of 
disgust. 

"  Yes,  he  lives  here.  If  he  had  been — like  other  men,  he 
would  have  been  master  here  when  my  grandfather  died. 
Being  what  he  is,  you  see,  I  have  to  be  master  and  mistress 
too  of  Quest." 

Alys  looked  round  the  room  a  little  wonderingly.  She 
had  never  sat  as  a  guest  in  such  a  room  before.  It  was 
much  like  the  parlours  of  ordinary  farmers1  wives:  rich  in 
antimacassars  and  queer  old  pictures,  samplers  and  big 
shells.  There  was  a  harmonium  with  books  piled  upon  it, 
and  the  furniture  was  covered  in  green  "rep."  There  were 
stiff  white  curtains  at  the  low  window,  and  pots  of  musk 
and  geranium  upon  the  sill.  Alys  had  seen  something  like 
it  when  she  went  into  the  country  with  her  father  from 
time  to  time,  and  had  even  once  lodged  in  a  very  similar 
room ;  but  it  gave  her  a  shock  to  find  her  sister— even  her 
step-sister — the  owner  of  such  an  apartment. 

"  What  lovely  flowers  ! "  she  said  at  last,  looking  at  the 
centre  table,  which  was  adorned  by  a  great  china  bowl,  full 
of  roses  and  other  summer  blossoms. 

"I  am  glad  you  like  them,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  little 
hesitation.  "I've  noticed  that  folks  from  London  think  a 
deal  of  our  roses." 

She  thought  of  Lady  Adela's  room,  which  was  never 
without  its  supply  of  sweet-smelling  flowers ;  and  although 
she  seldom  filled  the  old  punch-bowl  for  herself,  she  re- 
solved that  it  should  never  be  empty  while  Alys  was  at 
Quest.     The  girl  looked  up  smiling. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  them  ? "  she  asked. 


84  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  like  'em  growing  in  the  garden  best,1'  said  Lisbeth, 
frankly.  "  It  seems  a  sort  of  murder  to  pick  them  and  let 
them  die  in  a  stuffy  room.  But  that's  just  my  own  poor 
country  notion:  town  folk  like  to  see  them  on  tables  in  the 
house.11 

"  Yes,  I  think  they  are  lovely — and  so  sweet." 

"  I'll  put  some  more  in  your  room.  If  you  feel  rested 
now,  would  you  like  to  go  upstairs  and  take  off  your  things  ? 
I'll  have  tea  for  you  by  the  time  you're  ready.  You  must 
excuse  us  not  being  prepared,  as  it  were :  your  room  is  all 
right,  but " 

"  Did  you  not  know  I  was  coming  to-day  ? "  said  Alys, 
rising  to  her  feet. 

"  It  was  all  my  fault :  I  thought  it  was  to  be  Thursday, 
and  to-day's  Tuesday,"  said  Lisbeth.  "  But  it  makes  not  a 
bit  of  difference:  not  one  bit." 

But  she  had  not  counted  on  the  delicate  poise  of  the  girl's 
sensibilities,  which  had  already  been  a  good  deal  disturbed 
that  day.  Alys  wrung  ber  slender  hands  together  and  then 
burst  into  tears. 

"I  always  do  something  wrong — I  make  mistakes — I'm 
not  wanted  wherever  I  go ! "  she  sobbed. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  wanted  here,"  said  Lisbeth,  not  quite 
comprehending,  but  perfectly  pitiful.  "  I  want  you:  it  does 
not  matter  which  day  you  come." 

She  drew  Alys  close  to  her,  and  held  her,  while  the  over- 
strung girl  sobbed  away  her  misery  on  the  broad  supporting 
shoulder  of  her  step-sister.  It  was  with  a  quivering  little 
smile  that  Alys  at  last  looked  up. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me ! "  she  said,  gratefully.  "  I 
never  met  any  one  so  kind.  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  happy 
here " 

But  the  next  moment  she  shrank  and  shivered  again,  for 
in  the  open  doorway  she  saw  the  figure  of  Zadock  Verrall 
with  his  oaken  staff. 

Lisbeth  turned  her  head  also,  and  saw.  Then,  still  hold- 
ing Alys  within  one  arm,  she  signalled  to  Zadock  to  draw 
near. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  85 

"  Don't  show  that  you're  nervous,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone 
to  Alys.  "  He  doesn't  like  it.  Zadock,  look:  this  is  my  sis- 
ter— my  dear  sister.  You  must  be  good  to  her,  Zadock !  you 
must  love  her :  do  you  hear  ? " 

But  for  once  her  exhortation  seemed  to  have  no  effect. 
Zadock  growled  like  an  angry  dog,  and  moved  his  stick. 
Then  Lisbeth  laid  aside  her  gentleness,  and  spoke  like  an 
offended  queen. 

11  Put  away  that  stick,  sir.  What  do  you  mean  by  behav- 
ing so  badly  ?    Put  it  down — down  on  the  floor." 

With  some  hesitation,  Zadock  sulkily  complied. 

"  Good  boy ! "  said  Lisbeth,  softening  her  voice.  "  Now, 
go  away — leave  the  stick.  And  remember — you  must  love 
my  little  sister." 

"  My  stick,"  said  Zadock,  looking  at  it  as  it  lay  on  the 
ground. 

"  No,  Lisbeth's  stick.  Lisbeth  will  keep  it  for  Zadock — 
when  he  is  good." 

The  poor  imbecile  stumped  away  down  the  stone  pas- 
sages, muttering  to  himself,  and  Alys'  terrified  eyes  followed 
him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  But  Lisbeth  gave  her  a  re- 
assuring smile. 

"  He  is  not  often  so  cross,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  he  is  a 
little  bit  jealous  of  you.  He  will  soon  be  good-tempered 
again;  and  he  is  quite  harmless  and  gentle— he  follows  me 
about  like  a  great  dog." 

"  He  never  hurts  any  one  ? " 

11  Never— unless  any  one  is  cruel  to  animals  or  children. 
Then  he  sometimes  flies  into  a  rage.  But  that  happens  very 
seldom." 

Alys  listened,  and  tried  to  believe  it,  but  wished  in  her 
heart  that  she  had  known  of  Zadock's  existence  before  she 
came  to  Quest. 

She  followed  Lisbeth  up  the  narrow  stairs,  wondering  a 
little  at  the  sort  of  place  she  had  come  to,  and  marvelling  at 
the  apparent  absence  of  servants;  but  on  the  landing  she 
saw  a  red-armed,  red-cheeked  damsel,  who  seemed  to  have 
been  carrying  her  boxes  to  the  bedroom.     "Are  they  all 


86  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

here,  Sally  ? "  her  mistress  asked ;  and  Sally  replied  that 
there  was  still  another  to  come.  Alys  was  amazed  to  see 
her  reappear  in  a  minute  or  two,  carrying  with  apparent 
ease  a  box  which  had  taxed  the  energy  of  two  London  ser- 
vants at  the  Creightons'  house;  and  she  could  not  forbear 
an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Won't  she  hurt  herself  ?    That  heavy  box ! " 

Lisbeth  looked  round  and  smiled. 

"  That  won't  hurt  her.  We're  strong  and  hearty  in  these 
parts  of  the  world.  Why" — lifting  the  box  herself  to  an- 
other part  of  the  room — "  that's  a  mere  feather-weight.  I've 
carried  much  heavier  weights  than  that." 

"  You  must  be  strong !  I  could  not  lift  it.  I  tried  this 
morning. " 

"  I  should  think  you  couldn't.  We  must  get  some  colour 
in  your  face  by  and  by.  New  milk  and  fresh  air  ought  to  do 
something  for  you,"  said  Lisbeth,  almost  pityingly.  "  We've 
no  such  white  faces  here." 

"  I  ought  to  be  well  here,  I  think.  I've  not  been  quite 
strong  lately,"  said  Alys,  falling  easily  into  a  confidential 
vein.     "  Oh,  what  a  lovely  view  from  this  window ! " 

The  room  had  two  windows — one  south,  one  east,  and  the 
stretch  of  hill  and  dale  on  which  the  girl's  eyes  now  rested 
was  truly  magnificent.  The  evening  lights  and  shades  were 
especially  lovely,  and  Alys  stood  entranced,  hardly  noticing 
that  Lisbeth  was  busy  with  her  boxes,  until  she  turned  round 
to  find  them  all  unstrapped  and  uncorded. 

"  Oh,  you  should  not  have  done  all  that.  I  could  have 
done  it,  or  the  maid." 

Lisbeth  laughed  a  little.  "  The  maids  are  too  busy  to  do 
little  things  of  that  sort.  I'll  look  after  you — never  fear. 
Now  I'll  leave  you,  and  you'll  come  down  when  you're  ready. 
You  must  be  famished  for  your  tea." 

Alys  did  not  feel  hungry,  but  she  wanted  to  change 
her  dusty  dress  for  a  fresher  one.  She  was  still  in  deep 
mourning,  and  she  had  observed  with  some  surprise  that 
Lisbeth's  dress  did  not  present  a  sign  of  recent  bereavement. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,   Lisbeth  had    absolutely   refused   to 


THE   NEW  LIFE.  gf 

go  into  mourning  for  a  father  whom  she  had  scarcely  ever 
seen. 

Alys  liked  her  room.  It  was  large  and  airy,  though  low- 
ceiled,  and  it  had  an  air  of  cleanliness  and  spotless  purity 
which  pleased  her  taste.  Curtains  and  bed  furniture  were 
of  old-fashioned  white  dimity,  smelling  of  rose-leaves.  The 
floor  was  covered  with  matting,  and  a  rug  or  two ;  the  tables 
and  chairs  were  painted  green.  Lisbeth  had  made  the  room 
ready,  and  an  unconsciously  artistic  taste  had  guided  her 
eye.  The  room  seemed  quite  as  pretty  to  Alys  as  some 
much  belauded  "  aesthetic "  rooms  that  she  had  seen  in 
London;  and  she  wondered  why  it  should  be  so  different 
from  the  terrible  little  parlour  downstairs.  The  answer  was 
plain,  if  she  had  but  known  it.  Farmer  Verrall's  mother 
was  responsible,  in  the  first  instance,  for  the  parlour — Lisbeth 
only  for  the  bedroom. 

Alys  came  downstairs  in  time  to  be  surprised  again  by 
the  sight  of  her  sister  carrying  a  heavy  tray  into  the  parlour, 
and  beginning  herself  to  spread  the  table.  It  seemed  to  her 
extraordinary  that  the  mistress  of  Quest  should  do  this  com- 
mon domestic  work.  She  had  come  with  some  vague  idea 
of  Lisbeth  as  a  stately  country  gentlewoman,  with  a  poultry 
farm,  and  plenty  of  servants  to  wait  on  her — she  found  a 
capable,  housewifely  woman,  to  whom  nothing  in  the  way 
of  work  seemed  to  come  amiss,  wearing  a  big  apron,  and 
treating  her  maids  with  a  familiarity  which  Alys  would 
have  considered  unladylike  in  other  circumstances.  But 
Lisbeth  was  different  from  any  one  she  had  seen  before. 
With  all  her  domestic  ways,  she  was  a  splendidly  handsome 
woman,  and  in  spite  of  her  homely  accent  and  plain  dress, 
she  did  not  seem  to  lose  one  jot  of  her  dignity.  It  was  she 
who  brought  in  almost  every  plate  and  dish,  much  to  Alys's 
bewilderment,  not  knowing  that  this  was  Lisbeth's  way  of 
showing  attention  to  her  guest.  And  when  the  meal  was 
ready,  she  hardly  joined  in  it,  but  hovered  over  Alys,  and 
attended  to  her  wants  with  a  hearty  care  and  hospitality 
which  was  not  only  strange  but  charming. 

Then  when  the  tea,  with  its  accompaniments  of  boiled 


gg  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ham  and  poached  eggs,  hot  cakes  and  jellies,  had  come  to 
an  end,  Alys  was  taken  off  into  the  kitchen  "  to  see  Aunt 
Maria." 

"Aunt  Maria"  was  an  old  sister  of  Farmer  Verrall's. 
She  sat  in  a  great  chair  by  the  kitchen  fire,  worn,  aged, 
crouching  over  the  blaze,  rousing  herself  now  and  then  to 
knit  a  little,  or  to  scold  the  servants,  who  moved  round  her 
as  if  she  were  but  a  piece  of  furniture,  and  bent  only  on 
one  thing— on  keeping  possession  of  the  chimney  corner, 
which  had  been  hers  for  many  a  long  day.  She  was  rather 
deaf  and  rather  blind,  and  very  forgetful ;  and  nothing  could 
make  her  understand  who  Alys  was,  or  what  she  was  doing 
there.  But  she  was  not  an  unpleasing  object  in  her  white 
cap  and  comfortable  old  Paisley  shawl;  and  it  was  very 
plain  that  she  adored  Lisbeth— as  everybody  about  the  place 
— Alys  was  quick  to  see — adored  her  and  obeyed  her. 

But  the  sight  of  an  old  person  like  Aunt  Maria,  and  of 
a  half-witted  man  like  Zadock  on  the  premises  depressed 
Alys  a  little;  and  she  was  glad  to  escape  with  Lisbeth  into 
the  fragrant  sweet-scented  garden,  where  they  watched  the 
moon  rise  over  the  distant  hills. 

"  It  is  very  quiet  here,1'  said  Alys. 

"Too  quiet,  perhaps;  you  won't  like  it,"  said  Lisbeth, 
with  concern. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  think  I  shall.  It  is  a  very  lovely  place.  And 
I  suppose  " — rather  timidly — "  that  you  have  friends  here  ? " 

"  Not  many,"  said  Miss  Verrall  of  Quest. 

"  I  met  somebody  I  knew  as  I  came  up  here  in  the  fly," 
said  Alys,  with  a  sudden  blush.  "  Somebody  I  have  seen 
before,  I  mean.  That  Mr.  Moor,  who  came  from  you  to  Mr. 
Creighton." 

"Yes,  you  would  pass  him  on  the  road,"  said  Lisbeth 
quietly. 

"  Had  he  been  here  ? " 

"No." 

Alys  wondered  at  her  curt  answer. 

"  He  is  a  very  handsome  man,  is  he  not  ? "  she  said,  after 
a  little  pause. 


THE  DIE  IS  CAST.  89 

II  Some  people  think  so.  '  Handsome  is  as  handsome 
does,' "  quoth  Lisbeth. 

u  Isn't  he  nice,  then  ?    Isn't  he  good  ? " 

"  There's  no  harm  in  him.  But  he's  idle.  Five  and 
twenty,  and  nothing  to  do  in  life !  I  couldn't  live  like  that 
if  I  were  a  man." 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  not,'*  said  Alys.  "  I  can  see  that. 
But  he  looks  nice.'1'' 

II I  don't  say  he  isn't.  I've  known  him  nearly  all  my 
life,"  said  Lisbeth,  shortly,  "  and  I  think  as  well  of  him  as — 
of  most  people.  It's  time  to  go  in,  I'm  afraid,  my  dear ;  you 
are  shivering,  and  we  have  prayers  now — if  it  isn't  too  late 
already." 

"  Prayers ! " 

uYes.  Grandfather  always  had  them,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  nothing's  changed  since  his  time,"  said  Lisbeth, 
quietly. 

So  to  prayers  they  went,  in  the  big  raftered  kitchen, 
where  men  and  maids  alike  assembled,  and  where  Lisbeth, 
in  her  simple  stately  manner,  read  a  short  Psalm,  and  with 
all  the  others  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  aloud.  It  wTas  the 
shortest  and  baldest  of  functions;  but  it  gave  Alys  a  sense 
of  repose,  of  strength  and  confidence,  to  which  she  had  long 
been  a  stranger.  Lisbeth 's  full  clear  voice  reciting  holy 
words  seemed  to  assure  the  girl  of  future  happiness,  peace, 
and  goodwill. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  DIE  IS  CAST. 

Life  was  full  of  surprises  to  Alys  for  some  time  to  come, 
but  gradually  she  settled  down  at  Quest  with  a  delicious 
feeling  of  ease  and  freedom.  Even  Zadock  ceased  to  have 
any  terror  for  her:  she  became  much  more  fond  of  the 
kitchen  than  of  the  parlour,  and  was  not  averse  to  light  do- 
mestic tasks— though  these  Lisbeth  generally  took  away  from 


90  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

her  when  she  could,  for  Lisbeth's  desire  was  that  she  should 
be  waited  on,  "  just  as  she  had  been  at  home." 

"But  I  wasn't  waited  on  at  home,"  said  Alys,  with  a 
laugh.     "  Papa  liked  me  to  wait  upon  him." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say,"  said  Lisbeth,  rather  drily. 

"Lisbeth,  why  do  you  speak  in  that  tone  whenever  I 
mention  papa ! " 

"  What  tone,  my  dear  ? " 

They  were  sitting  on  the  doorstep  shelling  peas.  But 
Alys's  fingers  forgot  to  be  busy,  as  she  answered  the  ques- 
tion. 

"  You  speak  as  if — you  did  not  like  him." 

Lisbeth  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  "  I  don't  know 
that  we'd  better  talk  about  it,"  she  said.  "  But  perhaps  I  had 
better  tell  you  what  I  think,  once  and  for  all.  I've  never 
had  any  reason  to  love  my  father.  Perhaps  you  had. 
Though  I'm  not  sure  that  you  had  either,  if  the  truth  was 
told." 

"  Lisbeth,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Alys,  the  conscious 
colour  creeping  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

"  I  mean  that  I  think  he  was  selfish  not  to  provide  for 
you  better.  Why,  Grandfather  Verrall  did  much  better 
than  that  for  me.  Of  course,  I'm  not  going  to  take  the  few 
paltry  pounds  your  father  left  behind,  Alys.  It's  all  yours, 
to  do  what  you  like  with.     I've  got  Quest." 

"  Well,"  said  Alys,  with  rather  a  tremor  in  her  voice, 
"did  not  papa  really  do  his  best  for  you  by  leaving  you  to 
your  grandfather's  care  ?  You  have  benefited  by  it,  Lis- 
beth." 

"  No  thanks  to  him.  He  didn't  care  what  became  of  me. 
And  there  was  no  likelihood  then  of  my  being  mistress  of 
Quest,  because  Zadock  was  all  right — until " 

"  Yes.  until " 

Lisbeth  rose  from  her  seat  and  spoke  deliberately. 
"  Until  your  father,  when  he  came  here,  struck  him  and 
threw  him  down  upon  the  stones  so  that  his  poor  head  was 
never  the  same  again.  There,  Alys,  I've  never  got  over 
that,  and  I'm  afraid  I  never  shall.    Poor  Zadock  would  have 


THE   DIE  IS  CAST.  91 

been  like  anybody  else  but  for  him.  And  that's  the  reason 
I  never  put  on  a  scrap  of  mourning  for  him,  as  I  should 
have  done  for  decency's  sake,  if  it  had  only  been  me  that  he 
had  hurt  or  neglected;  but  I  could  not  do  it  when  I  thought 
of  yon  poor  boy." 

She  gave  Alys  no  chance  to  reply.  She  walked  away 
into  the  kitchen,  with  her  big  bowl  of  peas  in  her  hand ;  and 
the  girl  was  left  alone  upon  the  doorstep. 

She  wTas  very  much  shocked,  yet  not  very  much  sur- 
prised. She  knew  her  father's  selfish  and  violent  disposition 
very  well,  and  it  was  by  no  means  astonishing  that  he  should 
have  knocked  the  boy  out  of  his  way.  But  Alys  was  by  no 
means  strong-minded :  on  the  contrary,  she  had  more  than 
her  share,  perhaps,  of  womanish  fears  and  little  supersti- 
tions. And  she  was  suddenly  possessed  by  a  new  terror  of 
Zadock,  and  of  the  strange  aversion  that  he  still  showed  for 
her.  Was  there  some  occult  reason  for  this  dislike,  founded 
on  a  kind  of  innate  knowledge  that  she  was  her  father's 
daughter  ?  Was  it  to  be  her  fate  to  suffer — somewhere, 
somehow — for  her  father's  violence  ?  and  would  Zaclock  be 
the  instrument  by  which  vengeance  descended  upon  her 
head? 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  and  there  was  Zadock  before 
her  at  the  garden  gate,  peering  at  her,  grimacing  hideously, 
threatening  her  with  the  staff  which  Lisbeth  had  given  back 
to  him.  He  often  behaved  in  this  way  when  Lisbeth  was  not 
present.  He  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  thoroughly  fright- 
ening the  girl,  and  in  displaying  his  hatred  to  her.  Alys, 
quite  unnerved  for  the  moment,  almost  screamed;  aud  Lis- 
beth, hearing  a  cry  came  out  of  the  kitchen  to  see  whether 
anything  was  wrong.  Zadock  disappeared  as  soon  as  he 
heard  her  step;  and  Lisbeth,  leaning  over  Alys,  found  her 
so  white,  so  nervous,  so  trembling,  that  she  reproached  her- 
self for  having  spoken  to  her  of  her  father  as  she  had  done. 
But  Alys  explained. 

"  Zadock  startled  me:  that  was  all,"  she  said. 

"  You  shouldn't  be  frightened  of  him :  he  really  won't  do 
you  any  harm,"  said  Lisbeth,  kneeling  beside  her,  and  draw- 


92  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ing  the  pretty  golden  head  down  on  her  breast.  "  We're  a 
poor  lot:  we  don't  do  anything  to  amuse  you  and  hearten 
you  up,  do  we  ?  Are  there  none  of  your  London  friends  you 
could  ask  down  for  a  hit  ? " 

"  I  had  a  letter  this  morning  from  Edmund  Creighton," 
said  Alys,  recovering  herself,  "  and  he  talks  of  coming  here 
for  his  holiday— to  this  part  of  the  world,  I  mean.  I  sup- 
pose he  will  take  a  walking  tour.     I  wish— oh,  I  wish " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  wish  ?  My  dove  shall  have  all  she 
wants,'1  said  Lisbeth,  who  liked  to  croon  over  Alys  as  a 
mother  over  her  ailing  child. 

uIf  only  he  could  bring  Julian — his  sister — with  him! 
She  is  the  one  that  I  told  you  of— the  nice  one !  Oh,  we 
would  have  such  good  walks  and  expeditions  together !  You 
know  you  are  so  busy,  Lisbeth  dear,"  said  Alys,  with  a  sense 
of  ingratitude  strong  upon  her  for  her  speech. 

"Yes,  I  am  busy,"  said  Lisbeth,  gravely.  The  gravity 
seemed  to  have  grown  on  her  of  late.  "  Too  busy  to  make 
you  happy,  I'm  afraid.  Have  your  friend,  Alys :  write  and 
ask  her  to  come  here.  She's  not  a  fine  young  lady,  you  say : 
she'll  put  up  with  our  homely  ways." 

Alys  clung  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  thanked  her;  but 
she  could  not  get  over  the  feeling  that  she  had  hurt  Lisbeth 
a  little — that  there  had  been  for  a  moment  a  look  of  pain  in 
Lisbeth's  beautiful,  honest  eyes. 

It  had  been  a  little  lonely  for  her  now  and  then.  She 
had  expected  Lisbeth  to  be  a  companion  to  her  all  day  long. 
Her  notion  of  the  mistress-ship  of  a  house  consisted  in  "giv- 
ing orders  "  for  half  an  hour  after  breakfast.  But  Lisbeth 
was  up  at  four  or  five  in  the  morning,  working  beside  her 
maids,  tramping  about  her  farm,  attending  to  sick  beasts  and 
birds,  feeding  healthy  ones;  showing  everywhere  that  she 
knew  what  work  was,  and  how  to  do  it.  The  people  she  em- 
ployed were  all  a  little  in  awe  of  her :  she  had  a  shrewd  eye 
and  a  quick  tongue :  she  remembered  that  she  was  their  mis- 
tress, and  expected  them  to  remember  it,  too.  Alys  stood 
aghast  to  hear  her  give  to  stalwart  labourers  a  downright 
rating  for  drunkenness :  she  pleaded  in  vain  when  a  servant 


THE  DIE  IS  CAST.  93 

was  summarily  dismissed  for  pilfering ;  and  she  fled  in  posi- 
tive alarm  when  she  saw  Lisbeth  bring-  down  a  riding-whip 
with  considerable  force  on  the  shoulders  of  a  half -grown 
boy.  It  took  a  little  time  to  show  her — for  Lisbeth  never  ex- 
plained— that  these  acts  were  not  the  outcome  of  idle  temper 
and  irritability.  The  mistress  of  Quest  was,  at  any  rate,  in- 
flexibly just.  The  men  whom  she  scolded  could  count  on 
her  for  substantial  help  when  their  wives  or  children  were 
ill,  and  knew  that  it  was  for  their  sake  that  she  rated  them : 
the  servant  had  been  warned  half  a  dozen  times  before  she 
was  dismissed,  and  was  then  carefully  sent  back  to  her 
friends:  she  struck  the  boy  because  she  had  detected  him  in 
flagrant  cruelty  to  a  dumb  animal.  Alys  admired  her,  won- 
dered at  her,  and  trusted  her  as  she  had  never  trusted  any 
one  before. 

As  for  her  own  comfort,  it  was  considered  in  every  way. 
But  to  her  amaze — and  at  first  to  her  discomfort — she  found 
that  Lisbeth's  own  hands  did  everything  for  her  that  she 
required.  No  one  else  ever  entered  Alys's  room :  each  de- 
tail of  rearrangement,  or  of  cleansing,  was  performed  by 
Lisbeth  herself.  Alys  remonstrated  in  vain;  for  Lisbeth 
only  declared,  when  questioned,  that  "  none  of  those  girls  " 
were  fit  to  set  foot  in  her  sister's  chamber,  and  that  she  and 
she  alone  was  qualified  to  keep  things  as  Alys  would  like 
them. 

"  I  would  rather  do  everything  myself,"  said  Alys,  almost 
crying  with  vexation,  when  she  found  Lisbeth  on  her  knees 
sweeping  the  floor. 

"You're  not  meant  for  such  work,"  said  Lisbeth, 
briefly. 

•*  Then  I  must  go  away ;  for  I  can't  endure  to  give  you 
the  trouble." 

"  But  it's  no  trouble,  child :  I  like  it.  I  do  my  own  room 
out,  too ;  I  can't  abide  the  girls  upstairs :  they  never  sweep 
under  the  beds. " 

"/would  sweep  under  the  beds,  if  you  would  let  me," 
said  Alys,  laughing  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  I  won't  have  you  spoiling  your  pretty  hands,  and  mak- 
7 


94  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

ing  your  back  ache  with  house-work,  so  you  needn't  think 
it,"  said  Lisbeth,  decisively.  "  You've  come  here  to  be  idle, 
and  to  get  strong;  so  go  downstairs  to  your  drawing  or  your 
books,  and  leave  me  to  get  these  rooms  into  fettle — as  we 
north-country  folk  say." 

Alys  retreated  obediently,  but  with  a  little  pout:  she  was 
not  quite  happy  until  Lisbeth  put  her  into  good-humour  by 
letting  her  darn  some  fine  old  house-linen  that  had  got  out 
of  repair.  Then  she  felt  herself  to  be  of  some  use,  and  her 
serenity  was  restored. 

It  was  she,  of  course,  who  was  sitting  on  the  door-step 
with  a  book  when  Lady  Adela  drove  up  and  inquired  for 
Lisbeth.  It  must  be  explained  that  the  farmhouse  of  Quest 
had  three  outer  doors:  the  front-door,  with  spotless  steps, 
which  was  seldom  used;  the  side-door  opening  on  the  gar- 
den, and  into  a  long  passage  which  traversed  the  house  to 
the  back-door,  near  the  kitchen.  A  central  door  also  shut 
off  the  kitchen  from  that  end  of  the  house  which  was  near 
the  garden. 

The  steps  by  the  garden-door  formed  Alys's  favourite 
seat  on  fine  afternoons.  The  whole  valley  lay  stretched 
out  beneath  her  like  a  panorama,  and  the  sweet-scented 
flowers  sent  their  fragrance  straight  up  to  her  nostrils  as  she 
sat  and  read.  She  was  not  unaware  of  the  attentions  which 
Lady  Adela  had  bestowed  upon  her,  but  she  had  been  reso- 
lute in  refusing  to  lift  her  eyes  from  the  printed  page  in 
order  to  return  the  gaze  which  the  visitor  was  bestowing  on 
her  from  the  pony-cart. 

"Who  was  the  lady  who  called  ? "  she  asked  later. 

uLady  Adela  Moor:  the  mother  of  the  Mr.  Moor  whom 
you  saw  in  London." 

"  And  why  were  you  too  busy  to  see  her.  Lisbeth  ? " 

"  I  did  not  want  to  be  interrupted.  She  came  only  for 
fresh  eggs,  in  reality,"  said  Lisbeth,  drily. 

"She  looked — rather — nice." 

11 1  don't  think  we  know  here  what  you  mean  by  '  nice,'  " 
said  Lisbeth,  a  little  roughly,  a  little  impatiently. 

UI  mean— she  is  a  lady." 


THE  DIE  IS  CAST.  95 

"  A  lady !  Oh  yes.  And  that's  why  I  don't  want  her 
here." 

"Lisbeth!" 

"  I  don't  want  fine  ladies.  I'm  not  fit  company  for 
such." 

"  Oh !  fine  ladies !  No.  But  you  are  a  lady  yourself, 
Lisbeth,  and  fit  company  for  any  one,"  said  Alys,  decidedly. 

She  wondered  whether  Lisbeth  would  be  annoyed  by 
this  remark ;  but  Lisbeth  only  stood  and  looked  at  her,  her 
hand  on  her  hip,  a  slow  colour  rising  in  her  clear  olive 
cheek. 

"  Well !  "  said  Alys,  with  a  vague  feeling  of  amusement. 
"  Don't  you  agree  ?  " 

Her  sister  turned  away  with  a  sharp  gesture,  which  might 
have  meant  annoyance,  o*r,  for  some  reason,  simple  pain. 

"  I  don't  want  to  agree,"  she  said,  with  some  fierceness  of 
tone.  "  I  am  a  working  woman  myself,  and  not  of  Lady 
Adela's  sort." 

She  went  back  to  her  work;  and  Alys,  still  on  the  door- 
step, looked  before  her  with  a  dreamy  smile. 

"Have  the  Moors  been  rude  to  Lisbeth,  I  wonder?"  she 
said  to  herself.  u Or  was  she  always  like  this  to  them? 
They  are  the  sort  of  people  that  I  think  I  should  like  to 
know.  ...  It  is  lonely  here.  I  shall  be  glad  when  Julian 
and  Edmund  can  come." 

But  they  could  not  come  yet,  because  it  was  only  July, 
and  Edmund  could  not  possibly  leave  town  until  the  mid- 
dle of  August.  Julian  wrote  rapturously  of  her  delight  in 
the  prospect;  for  her  mother  and  elder  sisters  were  going  to 
a  German  spa,  and  she  was  overjoyed  to  find  herself  allowed 
to  acconmany  Edmund  instead.  But,  as  Mrs.  Creighton  re- 
marked, where  was  the  use  of  taking  an  awkward  schoolgirl 
with  them,  when  she  would  be  just  as  happy — far  happier, 
indeed — on  a  Cumberland  fell-side  ?  And  Alys  counted  the 
days— at  first — until  her  friends  should  come. 

At  first !  She  had  ceased  to  count  them  before  August 
came.  Because,  as  it  happened,  there  was  a  new  interest  in 
her  life  at  Quest. 


96  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Early  in  July,  as  Lisbeth  was  stepping  lightly  about  her 
dairy,  the  open  window  was  shadowed  by  a  man's  figure, 
and  a  man's  voice  fell  with  startling  effect  upon  her  ear. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Verrall !  Mayn't  I  say  Lisbeth  ? 
I  have  come  back  like  a  bad  penny  on  your  hands. " 

She  could  not  resist  the  smile  of  welcome,  nor  prevent 
the  flush  that  leaped  like  a  flame  into  her  face. 

u Frank!— I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr. " 

"  Leave  it  '  Frank,'  dear,  for  the  sake  of  old  days.  I  have 
not  come  to  bother  you,  Lisbeth.  Only  to  tell  you  my 
news— news  that  I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear." 

She  looked  very  beautiful,  he  thought,  as  she  stood  listen- 
ing to  him,  tall  and  upright,  in  her  cotton  dress  and  white 
apron,  above  which  her  fine  face  showed  like  a  rich  tropical 
flower.  There  was  colour  in  her  cheek,  fire  in  her  deep 
dark  eyes. 

"  You  have  found  work !  "  she  said,  quickly. 

"  Yes.  Am  I  a  little  worthier  of  respect  in  your  critical 
mind,  Lisbeth  ?  It  is  only  a  beginning,  you  know :  an  in- 
troduction to  political  life ;  but  it  is  worth  something— more 
than  perhaps  it  sounds." 

Then  he  told  her  about  his  secretaryship— which  was  not 
to  begin  until  October,  as  Lord  Eaynflete  was  at  present  in 
Scotland. 

Lisbeth  was  a  little  disappointed.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
it  was  a  small  thing  to  do— to  become  a  sort  of  "  compan- 
ion" to  another  man.  u  Why,  isn't  it  rather  like  being  a 
servant  ?  "  she  asked,  bluntly. 

For  almost  the  first  time,  Francis  Moor  thought  her  un- 
sympathetic. His  brow  contracted  a  little,  the  light  in  his 
eye  died  out.  And  Lisbeth  saw  instinctively  that  she  had 
hurt  him,  but  did  not  know  how  to  put  things  right.  She 
changed  the  subject  somewhat  abruptly. 

"You  have  not  seen  my  sister,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
come  into  the  garden  ?    She  is  generally  there." 

Frank  acquiesced.  He  was  rather  curious  to  see  Alys  in 
her  new  surroundings.  He  had  thought  her  very  pretty,  in 
a  rather  pathetic  way,  when  he  saw  her  at  Mr.  Creighton's 


THE  DIE  IS  CAST.  97 

for  a  minute  or  two ;  but  he  could  not  quite  conceive  of  her 
at  Quest. 

"  My  mother  is  very  anxious  to  see  her,"  he  said,  as  Lis- 
beth  joined  him  at  the  door.  u  She  saw  her  once  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  wondered  who  your  visitor  was." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  smile,  "  she  would  never 
think  it  possible  that  Alys  could  be  my  sister." 

It  was  one  of  the  bitter  things  she  sometimes  said  which 
made  Frank  angry.  But  he  would  not  reply ;  he  had  made 
many  good  resolutions  before  he  came,  and  one  of  them  was 
to  ignore  Lisbeth's  "  unlucky  "  speeches.  He  called  them 
"unlucky"  when  he  did  not  want  to  think  of  them  as  hard. 

"  Here  she  is,"  Lisbeth  said,  in  so  soft  a  voice  that  he 
looked  at  her  in  sudden  surprise.  The  dark,  handsome  face 
had  softened  too:  the  eyes  were  very  tender.  "Isn't  she 
pretty  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  faint  smile  upon  her  mouth. 
And  then  Frank  looked  away  from  her — to  Alys  Lorimer. 

The  girl  was  standing  in  a  narrow  path  between  two 
beds  of  crimson  and  pale-pink  phlox,  which  reached  almost 
to  her  waist,  and  formed  a  lovely  background  of  colour  to 
her  slender  figure  in  its  white  gown.  She  had  taken  off  her 
hat,  and  her  golden  hair  gleamed  like  an  aureole  about  her 
head.  When  she  raised  her  graceful,  drooping  head  and 
looked  at  Frank  with  her  innocent  blue  eyes,  he  felt  a  curi- 
ous thrill.  What  girl  had  ever  looked  at  him  like  that 
before  ? 

She  moved,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  a  little  lame.  The 
physical  infirmity  did  not  repel  him:  it  only  added  to  his 
impression  of  pathos — to  the  feeling  that  here  was  a  lovely 
frail  creature  who  needed  to  be  guarded  and  guided  in  her 
way  through  the  world.  Lisbeth  was  a  woman  to  lean  on 
— and  she  had  despised  him  for  leaning:  but  Alys  would 
cling  and  twine  herself  about  one's  heart.  Was  it  not  better 
to  love  a  woman  of  this  trusting,  clinging  kind  ?  Perhaps, 
when  he  asked  himself  the  question,  the  die  was  cast. 


98  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BY  CROSTHWAITE  TARN. 

"  You  are  so  different  from  your  sister,"  said  Frank. 

This  speech,  was  not  made  to  Lisbeth,  as  one  might  have 
anticipated:  it  was  made  to  Alys  Lorimer.  But  the  month 
was  no  longer  June. 

Mr.  Francis  Moor  had  settled  down  at  Moor  End  for  the 
summer,  and  his  mother's  heart  was  relieved  about  him,  for 
he  had  found  work  which  seemed  likely  to  satisfy  his  as- 
pirations, and  because  he  did  not  talk  to  her  any  more  about 
Lisbeth  Verrall.  Certainly  he  was  out  a  great  deal,  and  did 
not  tell  her  where  he  went;  but  she  had  a  sort  of  impres- 
sion, whence  derived  she  could  not  tell,  that  the  fancy  for 
Lisbeth  had  weakened,  if  it  had  not  passed  away.  She 
would  have  been  sure  of  it  if  she  had  heard  his  speech  to 
Lisbeth's  sister. 

Alys  sat  on  a  green  mound  near  the  edge  of  a  bit  of 
broken  ground,  overlooking  the  still,  dark  waters  locally 
known  as  Crosthwaite  Tarn.  It  was  a  lonely,  secluded  spot, 
lying  high  up  among  the  hills:  a  clear  pool,  reputed  to  be 
almost  fathomless,  edged  with  high  banks,  above  which  tow- 
ered greater  heights,  except  on  one  side,  where  a  tangle  of 
rowan  trees  and  rushes  shaded  the  stream  which  ran  from 
the  Tarn,  past  the  house  of  Quest,  to  join  the  river  in  the 
valley  far  below.  It  was  a  lovely  day,  full  of  sunshine  and 
brightness,  yet  not  sultry:  it  was  seldom  really  hot  among 
these  moorlaud  heights.  Alys  sat  in  the  sunshine,  and  re- 
joiced. 

"  Yes,  I  am  different,  I  know.     Lisbeth  is  so  beautiful." 

"  That  is  just  what  she  says  of  you." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  like  her  ? "  Alys  asked, 
eagerly.  "  She  is  so  clever  and  capable,  and  yet  so  loving 
and  kind ! " 

"  She  is  all  that,"  said  Frank,  in  rather  a  reserved  man- 


BY  CROSTHWAITE  TARN.  99 

ner.    He  did  not  very  much  want  to  talk  about  Lisbeth.    He 
wanted  to  talk  to  Alys  about  herself. 

"  And  I  am  so  different ! "  sighed  the  girl.  There  was 
surely  a  hint  of  coquetry  in  her  sweet  blue  eyes. 

"  Different ! — yes !  but— may  I  say  it  ? " 

"  Say  what  ? "  said  Alys,  smiling. 

"  Ten  thousand  times  more  beautiful." 

Ah,  poor  Lisbeth !  So  soon  forgotten,  so  soon  eclipsed, 
so  quickly  set  in  the  lower  place,  when  another  woman  came 
upon  the  scene!  Frank  did  not  know  that  he  was  fickle: 
he  told  himself  that  if  Lisbeth  had  returned  his  love,  he 
would  have  never  changed. 

"  Ten  thousand  times  more  beautiful,"  he  murmured,  as 
he  lay  on  the  short  crisp  turf  at  Alys  Lorimer's  feet  and 
gazed  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Moor,  how  can  you  ?  " 

"Your  sister  always  calls  me  Frank:  do  you  think  you 
could  ever  call  me  Frank  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Alys,  lowering  her  eyes. 
She,  too,  was  under  the  spell.  But  she  was  not  to  blame: 
she  did  not  know  the  things  that  had  happened  before  she 
came  to  Quest. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said,  much  more  earnestly  than  the  oc- 
casion seemed  to  warrant.  "  Would  it  be  very  difficult  ? 
Do  you  dislike  the  name  ? " 

"  Oh,  no:  not  at  all.  But  I  do  not  know  you  well 
enough " 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  all  my  life,"  said  Frank. 
Then  he  sat  up  and  looked  away  from  her. 

"  I  see— you  think  of  me  as  a  stranger.  Y-ou  think  you 
will  never  know  me  any  better — and  you  are  not  sorry.  Is 
that  it  ? " 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  that,"  said  Alys,  nervously.  u  But  I 
have  been  here  such  a  little  while " 

"Time  does  not  count,"  Frank  broke  in,  impetuously. 
"  There  are  souls  that  recognize  each  other  at  once,  and 
know  that  they  have  met  before — that  they  are  made  for 
each  other  to  all  eternity." 


100  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  That  must  be  very  rare— and  rather  inconvenient,"  said 
the  girl,  smiling.  It  seemed  safest  to  take  the  matter  as  a 
kind  of  joke. 

'k  You  mean  it  is  not  our  case." 

u  Of  course." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  so  earnestly  on  her  face  that  she 
turned  it  aside,  and  began  plucking  the  stunted  grass,  the 
bits  of  wild  thyme  and  heather  which  grew  beside  her.  It 
was  a  comfort  to  be  able  to  use  her  hands  and  look  at  the 
flowers— since  she  could  not  get  up  and  walk  away  from 
him.  And  yet— why  could  she  not?  She  did  not  know; 
there  seemed  to  be  a  weight  upon  her  limbs,  a  weakness  in 
her  muscles;  she  felt  that  she  must  stay  where  she  was 
until  it  pleased  him  to  let  her  go.  It  was  like  some  sort 
of  hypnotic  influence  —  she  could  not  move  against  his 
will. 

When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  with  a  new  tone  in  his 
voice.  It  was  less  eager,  but  it  was  the  voice  of  one  who 
deeply  felt  wThat  he  was  saying. 

u  I  want  you  to  forgive  me  beforehand  for  what  I  am  go- 
ing to  say.  You  will  think  it  presumptuous— strange — alto- 
gether unheard  of;  but  I  must  say  it  in  spite  of  that.  Is  it 
possible  that  some  day  you  might  learn  to  look  on  me  as  not 
a  stranger,  but  a  friend  ?  More  than  a  friend,  I  mean  ...  I 
know  you,  as  you  say,  so  little,  and  yet— it  is  presumption,  I 
know— I  love  you,  Alys — I  love  you." 

His  voice  was  lowered  almost  to  a  whisper.  He  lowered 
his  face,  lifted  passionately  a  moment  before ;  his  head  was 
near  her  arm;  before  she  knew  what  he  meant  to  do,  he 
had  kissed  the  delicate  blue-veined  wrist  that  lay  upon  her 
knee. 

A  flame  sprang  into  Alys's  face  and  eyes.  She  drew  her- 
self away  from  him ;  perhaps  she  would  have  sprung  to  her 
feet  but  for  her  lameness,  which  made  her  sometimes  a  little 
slow  to  move  without  help;  but  the  look  in  her  face  made 
him  rise — at  any  rate  as  far  as  his  knees.  He  knelt  and 
looked  at  her.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  came  involuntarily 
from  his  lips.     . 


BY  CROSTHWAITE  TAEitf.  101 

Then  Alys  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  not  dignified,  and  she  knew  it,  and  despised  her- 
self;  but  her  nerves  were  too  delicately  strung  for  calmness. 
She  felt  herself  insulted,  he  had  taken  a  great  liberty,  and 
she  was  very,  very  angry.  There  was  something  beside  an- 
ger in  her  heart,  but  she  hardly  knew  that  yet. 

Her  tears  had  the  effect  of  reducing  Frank  to  despair. 

"  Oh,  what  a  brute  I  am !  "  he  cried,  penitently.  "  For- 
give me !  Forgive  me !  I  never  meant  to  vex  you — I  could 
not  help  it.  Don't  think  ill  of  me  for  it:  I  didn't  mean  it  as 
disrespect,  if  you  thought  that " 

u  Yes,"  said  Alys,  with  a  gasp,  "  I  did." 

"  It  was  not — I  assure  you  it  was  not.  I  must  have  been 
mad  for  the  moment,  but  it  was  so  near  me,  and  everything 
about  you,  even  anything  you  have  touched,  is  dear  to  me. 
Dear  and  sacred  too!  because  I  love  you  with  my  whole 
heart,  and — Alys,  can  you  not  love  me  a  little  too  ? " 

The  pleading  would  have  sounded  boyish,  but  for  the 
fervour  of  his  voice.  Alys  did  not  answer,  but  she  began 
to  relent.  Her  back  was  almost  turned  to  him,  and  the  tears 
were  still  wet  on  her  cheeks,  but  the  sobs  that  had  fright- 
ened him  had  ceased,  and  her  hands  were  folded  before  her 
in  her  lap. 

"Will  you  not  forgive  me  ? "  said  Frank,  quite  piteously, 
at  last. 

"  It  was  very  wrong.  I  never  gave  you  leave,"  said 
Alys,  tremulously. 

"  Would  you  not  give  me  leave  now  %  " 

She  started  and  faltered. 

"I  love  you,  Alys,n  he  repeated.  "Can  you  not  love 
me  ?    Can  you  not  forgive  me  ?  " 

She  yielded  then.  She  moved  her  hand  towards  his,  and 
let  him  take  it,  as  she  replied — 

"  I  might  forgive,  but " 

"  Ah,  don't  go  on !  " 

She  looked  round  at  him  uncertainly. 

"  You  were  going  to  say  you  could  not  love  me." 

u  Was  I  ? " — the  corners  of  her  lips  relaxed  into  a  smile. 


10*2  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST, 

u  Were  you  not  ?  were  you  not  ?  Darling,  can  you  care 
for  me  a  little  ? "  And  then  she  let  him  put  his  arm  quite 
around  her,  and  for  a  moment  their  lips  met. 

They  were  two  silly  young  people,  and  acted,  no  doubt, 
very  imprudently ;  but  life  was  beautiful  to  them,  and  each 
thought  love  the  most  beautiful  thing  on  earth.  Also,  they 
found  it  a  joyous  thing;  not  knowing  how  sad  it  can  some- 
times be,  nor  how  tragically  barren  of  result. 

Frank's  heart  had  been  caught  in  the  rebound.  Lisbeth's 
words  had  hurt  him  more  than  he  cared  to  own — they  had 
effectually  prevented  him  from  making  any  further  effort 
to  win  her  love.  He  had  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was 
not  the  poor  thing  she  thought  him;  and  for  that  reason, 
chiefly,  he  had  obtained  a  prospect  of  work  in  London. 
Pique,  rather  than  love,  brought  him  to  Quest  again:  he 
wanted  to  be  sure  that  she  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do — 
"for  her  sake,"  as  he  said  to  himself;  but  pique  was  the  best 
possible  preparation  for  a  perfectly  new  kind  of  develop- 
ment. The  delicate,  flower-like  beauty  of  Alys  Lorimer 
took  him  by  storm.  She  was  as  different  from  Lisbeth  as 
light  from  darkness— perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  he 
fell  in  love  with  her  so  soon.  But  this  was  the  real  love,  he 
told  himself— the  other  had  been  a  brother's  affection  for  a 
sister;  and  how  lucky  it  was  that  Lisbeth  had  found  it  out! 
She  had  been  right  and  wise  all  along— he  acknowledged  it 
most  gratefully ;  and  he  should  always  love  her  as  a  sister, 
when  Alys  was  his  wife. 

The  lovers  thought  themselves  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  observant  eye;  but— unfortunately,  perhaps— they  were 
mistaken.  Just  as  they  kissed  each  other  for  that  first  time, 
a  woman's  figure  came  into  view  behind  tbem :  they  did  not 
see  her,  but  she  saw  them  clearly,  and  saw  the  kiss.  She 
stopped  short,  and  looked— looked  keenly  and  steadfastly,  as 
if  she  could  not  quite  believe  her  eyes.  Then  her  face  was 
covered  by  a  hot  flush,  which  subsided  only  to  leave  her  very 
wan  and  pale.  She  had  been  going  to  approach  them,  but 
now  she  moved  softly  away  over  the  short  grass,  until  she 
found  a  track  further  down  the  hillside,  which  led  towards 


BY  CROSTHWAITE  TARN.  103 

the  Gap ;  and  she  passed  quietly  down  this  track  until  she 
was  out  of  sight. 

Lisbeth  had  been  away  on  the  hills,  in  order  to  visit  a 
lonely  cottage  where  an  old  pensioner  of  hers  was  living, 
and  she  had  arranged  with  Alys  to  meet  her  at  the  Tarn. 
Frank  Moor  had  joined  Alys  as  she  went  slowly  up  the  hill ; 
she  did  not  mind  a  long  walk  if  she  might  walk  slowly,  and 
he  gave  her  the  help  of  his  arm  as  well  as  the  benefit  of  his 
company.  Then  he  had  seated  himself  beside  her  to  await 
Lisbeth's  arrival.  They  did  riot  guess  that  Lisbeth,  with  her 
faithful  follower,  Zadock,  had  seen  them,  and  passed  them 
unseen. 

As  soon  as  Lisbeth  thought  herself  well  out  of  their 
reach,  she  became  aware  that  she  was  feeling  very  tired  and 
rather  sick.  She  did  not  at  first  connect  these  sensations 
with  the  sight  which  she  had  seen :  indeed,  she  wondered  a 
little,  in  an  odd  apathetic  way,  whether  she  had  not  walked 
too  far,  or  had  a  sunstroke— then  she  found  that  she  was 
crying — that  two  great  tears  had  fallen  on  her  lap,  and  a 
sob  was  rising  in  her  throat;  and  then  she  knew. 

What  was  it  that  she  discovered  at  that  moment — a  mo- 
ment which  she  always  looked  back  to  as  one  of  the  most 
pregnantly  painful  moments  of  her  life?  She  discovered 
that  her  whole  heart  and  soul  were  bound  up  in  the  love  of 
one  man,  and  that  was  the  very  man  whom  she  had  just 
seen  offering  his  devotion  to  another. 

She  had  known  before  this  that  she  loved  Francis  Moor. 
But  she  thought  that  her  love  for  him  was  of  that  protecting, 
motherly  kind  which  would  be  satisfied  with  the  promotion 
of  his  welfare ;  that  she  could  be  happy  in  his  happiness. 
And,  behold,  she  was  not:  he  was — possibly — happy,  and  she 
was  very,  very  miserable.  It  seemed  to  her  that  love  and 
faith  had  died  out  of  the  world,  and  that  a  black  veil  over- 
spread the  sun. 

She  was  too  unhappy  to  dry  her  tears;  they  splashed 
slowly,  one  after  another,  upon  her  pale  cotton  gown.  She 
was  even  regardless  of  the  wondering  gaze  of  Zadock,  who 
had  drawn  near,  and  was  staring  at  her  remorselessly,  with 


104  ™E  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

a  separate  observation  for  every  down-dropping  tear.  He 
drew  nearer  to  her,  so  near  at  last  that  he  almost  touched 
her ;  and  then  said — 

"  Is  it  for  them  %  " 

Lisbeth  choked  back  her  tears,  and  tried  to  laugh.  But 
Zadock's  questions  always  required  an  answer. 

u  For  them?    Who,  Zadock  ? " 

"  Them — up  there,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his  stick  to  the 
eminence  which  they  had  left.  "  They— they  make  you 
cry " 

"  No,  no,  Zadock;  be  a  good  boy:  it's  not  their  fault," 
said  Lisbeth ;  yet,  somehow,  the  simple  solicitude  of  her  tone 
made  her  eyes  gush  out  with  tears  again.  Zadock's  brows 
gathered  into  a  frown. 

"  If  they  hurt  Lisbeth,"  he  said,  brandishing  his  big  stick, 
"Zadock  kill  them." 

"  Hush !  nonsense,  Zadock ;  you  are  not  to  talk  in  that 
way.  They  are  good — good,  remember  that;  and  you  are 
not  to  hurt  them." 

"  If  they  make  Lisbeth  cry,"  he  said,  sullenly,  'k  Zadock 
make  them  cry,  too." 

For  an  instant  a  curious  fear  awoke  in  Lisbeth 's  breast. 
A  doctor  had  once  told  her  that  it  was  possible  for  Zadock 
to  develop  strange,  murderous  instincts,  and  that,  if  so,  it 
would  be  incumbent  upon  her  to  put  him  under  restraint. 
She  had  rejected  the  idea  with  scorn  and  horror  at  the  time. 
Zadock,  so  gentle  and  affectionate,  so  fond  of  the  fresh  air 
and  of  the  mountain  side,  to  be  capable  of  violence  and  im- 
mured in  a  lunatic  asylum !  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for 
a  moment— and  yet,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  thought  of  it 
now.  The  remembrance  left  a  touch  of  sternness  in  her 
tone. 

4k  Zadock  is  not  good,"  she  said.  "  If  Zadock  talks  in  that 
way,  Lisbeth  will  be  very  angry.  And  see — Lisbeth  is  not 
crying  now." 

She  smiled  as  brightly  as  she  knew  how,  and  Zadock 
smiled  responsively.  But  a  moment  later,  he  looked  into 
her  eyes,  and  still  saw  the  liquid  gleam  of  tears. 


BY  CROSTHWAITE  TARN".  1Q5 

"  Zadock  kill  them  if  you  cry,"  he  said,  obstinately. 

"  Then  Lisbeth  won't  cry,"  said  the  mistress  of  Quest,  in 
her  most  decided  tone.  "  Now,  give  me  your  hand,  Zadock, 
and  let  us  run  down  this  hill.  We  shall  get  home  before 
them." 

And  although  her  heart  was  so  heavy  that  her  hands 
were  like  lead,  she  took  his  hand  and  raced  him  down  the 
hill,  knowing  that  brisk  exercise  was  often  the  best  way  of 
exorcising  the  evil  spirit  in  Zadock's  breast.  When  they 
reached  the  Gap,  his  face  was  radiant  and  content.  And 
for  his  sake  Lisbeth  did  her  utmost  to  banish  any  signs  of 
sorrow  from  her  face. 

Not  for  his  sake  only.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
rather  die  than  let  Frank  suspect  that  she  had  shed  tears  for 
love  of  him.  He  did  not  know  that  she  loved  him:  he 
should  never  know — in  this  world.  Lisbeth  believed  that 
in  another  far-off  country,  the  bourn  from  which  no  travel- 
ler returns,  she  would  be  able  to  tell  him  of  her  love  with- 
out fear  and  without  shame.  In  heaven,  yes;  but  not  in 
this  troublesome,  transitory  world. 

The  lovers  waited  on  the  hill,  expecting  Lisbeth  to  join 
them,  until  the  sunset  hues  began  to  show  themselves  in  the 
west.  Then,  much  wondering,  and  rather  inclined  to  resent 
Lisbeth's  non-appearance  (although  too  blissful  to  mind  it 
very  much),  they  made  the  best  of  their  way  down  to  Quest, 
walking  hand  in  hand  until  they  came  within  sight  of  the 
house.  Then,  however,  they  dropped  hands,  and  walked 
demurely  side  by  side,  for  Frank  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
say  nothing  at  present,  and  Alys  was  too  happy  in  her  girl- 
ish dreams  to  think  of  confidences. 

Certainly  it  would  have  been  a  little  hard  for  Frank  to 
confront  Lisbeth  quite  steadily  and  tell  her  that  he  had 
transferred  his  affections  to  Alys  Lorimer.  He  was  ashamed 
of  himself;  and  yet  he  said,  doggedly,  that  he  could  not 
help  it.  Alys  was  a  fitting  mate  for  him,  and  Lisbeth  was 
not — that  was  the  long  and  short  of  the  matter.  He  took 
leave  of  her  at  the  gate,  denying  himself  the  indulgence  of 
another  kiss,  and  only  pressing  her  hands  tenderly,  and 


106  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

gazing  for  a  moment  into  the  blue  depths  of  her  eyes.  He 
had  no  suspicion  that  there  were  any  watchers.  But  Lisbeth 
was  looking  at  him  through  a  muslin  blind,  and  Zadock  was 
peering  suspiciously  from  the  shelter  of  an  outhouse  in  the 
yard. 

14  Oh,  Lisbeth,  I  am  so  happy  ! "  Alys  breathed,  as  she 
flung  herself  on  her  sister's  neck,  and  hid  her  face. 

"Are  you,  love  ?    That  is  right— quite  right." 

But  Lisbeth  did  not  ask  what  made  her  happy,  and  Alys 
had  been  cautioned  not  to  tell. 

As  Frank  passed  through  the  yard,  by  which  he  chose  to 
take  his  way,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Zadock's  face  at  the 
door  of  the  shed.  He  turned  and  looked  again,  for  he  had 
not  often  seen  it  marked  with  that  expression  of  scowling 
defiance  and  mistrust.  Surely  that  look  was  never  meant 
for  him  !    He  turned  back  impulsively  to  ascertain. 

u  Hallo,  Zadock  !  How  are  you  gettiug  on  ?  What  are 
you  doing  ? " 

Zadock  came  out  of  his  shed,  with  a  big  knife  in  his 
hand,  which  gleamed  ominously  in  the  twilight. 

"  Making  knife  sharp,"  he  said.  "  Zadock  kill — kill — Mil 
you,  if  you  make  Lisbeth  cry. " 

"  Who  wants  to  make  her  cry  ? "  said  Frank,  laughing. 
But  he  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  as  he  strode  away  down 
the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

" LOOK  BEFORE  YOU  LEAP  !  " 

Edmund  Creighton  and  his  sister  Julian  arrived  when 
August  was  half  over.  Alys  was  glad  to  see  them,  but  not 
so  glad  as  she  would  have  been  at  the  beginning  of  July. 
Now,  it  must  be  confessed  that  she  found  them  slightly  in 
the  way. 

Frank  had  found  many  excuses  for  his  visits  to  Quest. 
He  had  to  invent  excuses,  because  Lisbeth  did  not  welcome 


"LOOK  BEFORE  YOU  LEAP!"  iQf 

him  as  she  used  to  do.  Her  face  looked  hard  and  set  when 
he  came  to  the  house :  she  would  not  always  shake  hands 
with  him :  she  used  to  stand  when  he  came  into  a  room  until 
he  was  obliged  to  go  away.  And  Frank  dared  not  protest. 
His  conscience  towards  her  was  not  free;  and  he  did  not 
like  to  ask  her  what  this  change  of  manner  meant.  At  last, 
even  Alys  remonstrated. 

uWhy  are  you  so  disagreeable  to  Mr.  Moor  when  he 
comes,  Lisbeth  ?  You  used  to  like  him,  and  now  you  are 
quite  cold  and  silent." 

"  Am  I  disagreeable — and  cold  ?  "  said  Lisbeth.  "  I  did 
not  know;  but — I  think  Mr.  Moor  would  do  better  not  to 
come  here  so  often,  and  perhaps  I  wanted  to  tell  him  so." 

"  It  would  be  better  to  tell  him  in  words  rather  than  by 
putting  on  a  stiff  manner  that  makes  everybody  uncomfort- 
able," said  Alys,  with  a  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes.  "  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Moor  feels  it." 

She  looked  down  at  the  embroidery  in  her  hands,  and 
put  in  a  few  stitches.  Lisbeth  regarded  her  wistfully. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  way  her  dark  eyes 
rested  on  the  girl.  Lisbeth's  eyes  were  not  quite  so  bright 
as  they  used  to  be :  they  were  heavy,  yet  soft,  with  a  linger- 
ing tenderness  in  their  expression.  They  looked  like  the 
eyes  of  one  who  shed  a  good  many  tears  when  other  people 
were  in  bed. 

"  Mr.  Moor ! "  Why  did  Alys  call  him  Mr.  Moor  to  her  ? 
It  must  be  hypocrisy.  She  would  not  call  him  so  in  private ! 
Why  did  she  not  tell  her  the  truth  ?  Did  Frank  think  that 
she — she,  Elizabeth  Yerrall — would  mind  ?  It  was  a  humili- 
ating idea. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe,  Alys,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  that 
Lady  Adela  Moor  dislikes  his  coming  to  Quest  so  much. 
She  thinks  we  are  not  fit  company  for  him.  At  least,  you 
may  be;  but  I'm  not."    She  concluded  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  Not  fit  company  for  Frank  Moor  ? "  said  Alys,  dropping 
the  title  in  her  astonishment.  "But — how  extraordinary! 
Of  course  he  is  handsome — and  nice— and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  how  is  he  better  than  other  young  men  ? " 


108  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Lisbeth  was  delighted;  she  thought  this  speech  meant 
that  Alys  was  inclined  to  depreciate  Frank,  but  Alys  was 
only  using  a  little  of  the  diplomacy  which  she  had  learned 
in  a  more  sophisticated  world.  She  did  not  want  to  deceive 
Lisbeth ;  she  was  restless  at  the  thought  of  keeping  a  secret 
from  her ;  but  Frank  had  told  her  not  to  betray  him,  and 
she  was  obedient  to  his  slightest  wish. 

She  said  no  more,  and  Lisbeth  felt  that  her  remark  had 
done  no  good,  and  wondered  whether  she  ought  to  go  to 
Lady  Adela  and  tell  her  the  whole  story.  Yet — what  had 
she  to  tell  ?  She  had  seen  Frank  kissing  Alys — that  was  all. 
Perhaps  it  was  nothing  more.  Perhaps  Frank — she  spoke 
evil  of  him  to  herself  now — was  in  the  habit  of  making  love 
to  every  girl  he  came  across.  But  if  so,  poor  Alys!  for 
Alys  was  not  a  girl  who  would  give  kisses  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Lisbeth  was  silently  miserable,  and  knew  not  what 
to  do. 

She  was  delighted  to  see  the  Creightons.  She  grasped  in 
five  minutes  the  reason  why  Edmund  had  come.  She  saw 
that  he  wanted  Alys  by  the  way  in  which  his  cool  grey  eye 
softened  as  he  looked  at  her.  And  she  would  speed  that 
wooing  by  every  device  in  her  power.  Only  Alys,  like  a 
wilful  girl,  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  young  barrister,  and 
devoted  herself  to  Julian. 

All  was  sunshine  for  the  next  few  days.  Frank  stayed 
away;  and  Alys,  knowing  his  intention  of  doing  so,  was 
happy  with  her  friends.  Edmund  did  not  make  love  hastily. 
He  had  resolved  to  ask  her  formally  to  be  his  wife,  and  had 
not  much  doubt  of  the  answer.  But  in  the  meantime  he 
meant  everything  to  be  very  pleasant,  and  behaved  like  a 
brother  or  a  friend— he  knew  the  subtle  charm  of  that  rela- 
tionship. He  did  not  force  himself  even  on  the  girls'  com- 
pany ;  he  went  shooting  sometimes  with  friends  who  were 
staying  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  hoped  that  Alys  would 
feel  his  absence  and  be  glad  to  see  him  back.  But  he  did 
not  reckon  on  the  fact  that  after  the  first  few  days  Frank 
Moor  reappeared  upon  the  scene,  and  took  to  meeting  Alys 
and  Julian  i'n  their  walks,  as  he  was  no  longer  made  wel- 


"LOOK   BEFORE   YOU   LEAP!"  109 

come  at  Quest.  Lisbeth  stayed  at  home  and  ate  her  own 
heart;  but  she  did  not  know  of  these  meetings  on  the  moor 
or  by  the  lonely  Tarn. 

Not  that  Alys  meant  to  keep  them  secret.  She  had 
merely  said  to  Julian,  'k  Lisbeth  does  not  like  Mr.  Moor,  so 
he  does  not  care  to  come  to  the  house; "  and  Julian  drew  her 
own  conclusions.  She  was  a  quick,  clever  little  girl,  and 
scented  a  romance. 

Of  course,  Alys  did  not  want  her  to  mention  these  meet- 
ings ;  and,  with  a  mistaken  instinct  of  friendliness,  she  held 
her  tongue. 

But  she  was  lonely  sometimes,  when  those  two  were  talk- 
ing; and  she  indulged  in  little  rambles  and  excursions  of 
her  own,  so  as  to  leave  them  free.  She  stayed  within  call, 
and  usually  within  sight;  but  she  amused  herself  in  her  own 
way. 

One  day,  when  Frank  and  Alys  were  sitting  beside  the 
tarn,  she  went  round  to  the  lower  end  of  the  pool,  and  began 
to  explore  the  little  thicket  of  rowan  trees  and  birch  trees 
that  grew  beside  it.  She  lost  sight  of  the  couple  on  the  hill, 
but  that,  she  decided,  did  not  matter ;  they  knew  where  she 
was,  and  she  could  hear  them  if  she  called.  But  she  did  not 
bargain  for  an  adventure,  such  as  she  never  had  before. 

She  was  wandering  along,  not  looking  where  she  was 
going,  after  her  usual  fashion,  when  she  heard  a  voice  that 
startled  her  by  saying  sharply — u  Take  care ! " 

The  warning,  perhaps,  brought  about  the  disaster.  Julian 
looked  down,  found  herself  on  the  very  edge  of  a  bit  of 
broken  ground  where  she  must  either  recoil  or  jump  to  a 
lower  level.  She  jumped — perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say 
that  she  stumbled,  and  only  saved  herself  from  a  bad  fall 
by  catching  at  the  stem  of  a  rowan  tree.  But  she  had  not 
looked  before  she  leapt,  and  the  consequence  was  that  she 
jumped  straight  into  the  middle  of  a  water-colour  drawing 
stretched  on  a  frame,  which  had  been  laid  on  the  ground — 
probably  to  dry.  The  ruin  was  obvious  and  complete.  The 
sketch  was  a  wreck  of  torn  paper  sticking  at  intervals  to  a 
frame. 


110  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done  ? "  said  Julian,  involuntarily. 

"  Great  mischief,"  was  the  answer  that  reached  her  ears. 
uMay  I  suggest  that  another  time  you  look  before  you 
leap  ? " 

Julian's  face  was  crimson.  She  did  not  know  it,  but  she 
looked  extremely  pretty  as  she  raised  her  hazel  eyes  timidly 
to  see  the  speaker.  Her  wild  brown  hair  was  blown  across 
her  frank  forehead ;  her  handsome  well-set  head  was  bare, 
for  she  carried  her  straw  hat  in  one  hand.  Her  blue  linen 
frock  was  plain  and  short;  she  wore  no  gloves,  and  looked 
about  fifteen. 

The  man  who  spoke  to  her  was  justified  in  treating  her 
as  quite  a  little  girl— although,  as  he  said  to  himself,  a  tre- 
mendously pretty  one. 

The  artist,  as  Julian  called  him  in  her  mind,  was  a  man 
of  middle  age.  Perhaps  he  looked  older  than  he  was,  or 
perhaps  Julian  was  a  poor  judge.  At  any  rate,  she  set  him 
down  vaguely  as  about  "  fifty  or  sixty  " ;  his  real  age  being 
thirty-seven.  He  had  a  "kind  face,"  she  thought,  not  a 
handsome  one;  and  the  pair  of  brown  eyes  under  the  bushy 
eyebrows  twinkled  rather  humorously  as  he  looked  at  her. 
He  was  tall,  lank,  and  lean :  his  hair  and  beard  straggled  a 
little,  and  his  coat  was  undeniably  shabby:  but  he  had  the 
charm  of  manner  that  marks  some  men,  and  it  was  unmis- 
takably the  manner  of  a  gentleman.  His  features  were  re- 
fined and  clearly  cut;  his  voice  was  very  pleasant.  Julian 
did  not  see  half  these  things — she  was  far  too  much  of  a 
child;  but  she  felt  them,  nevertheless. 

She  had  landed  on  a  little  triangular  cove  or  hollow  in 
the  moss-grown  bank:  two  or  three  square  yards  of  grassy 
ground,  laved  by  the  waters  of  the  stream  which  issued 
from  the  tarn,  and  shaded  by  the  trees  which  grew  on  the 
sloping  bank  above  it.  The  steep  broken  ground  which  half 
enclosed  this  triangle  of  smooth  grass,  and  down  which  she 
had  almost  fallen,  was  partly  covered  with  rare  ferns,  and 
Julian  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  intruded  on  the  artist's  pri- 
vate apartment — so  secluded  was  the  spot,  so  fairy  like  in  its 
lovely  remoteness  from  the  rest  of  the  world.     It  was  not  so 


"LOOK  BEFORE  YOU  LEAP!"        m 

very  remote,  after  all:  she  could  see  the  figures  of  Frank 
and  Alys  at  some  distance  from  her  on  the  other  side  of  the 
tarn.     The  sight  gave  her  courage  to  stammer  out — 

u  I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  stranger  had  risen,  and  was  surveying  her  with 
amused  and  friendly  eyes. 

"  It  does  not  in  the  least  matter,"  he  said.  "  I  had  done 
almost  nothing  to  that  sketch.  You  have  practically  only 
spoilt  a  piece  of  paper. " 

"  But  you  had  begun  it— there  was  something  done.    Oh, 

I  am  so  sorry !  " 

u  Pray,  don't  distress  yourself,"  said  the  artist,  smiling. 

II  It  was  a  very  bad  sketch,  to  begin  with,  and  I  was  think- 
ing of  beginning  another.  I  am  glad  you  have  obliged  me 
to  make  the  attempt." 

"  But  it  is  so  tiresome  to  have  anything  spoilt— anything 
one  has  begun,"  said  Julian,  finding  her  natural  voice.  "I 
know  it  myself " 

"  Why  ?    Do  you  sketch  too  ?  "  he  said,  kindly. 

"No:  I  am  not  clever  at  anything  ornamental — oh,  I 
ought  not  to  have  said  that,  ought  I  ?  I  am  always  saying 
the  wrong  thing." 

'•  What  have  you  said  wrong,  then  ?    I  did  not  notice." 

"  I  mean,"  said  Julian,  turning  crimson  again,  "  that  if  it 
is  your  life-work,  you  cannot  like  it  to  be  spoken  of  as  mere- 
ly ornamental." 

The  stranger  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  moving  the 
broken  frame  with  his  foot,  and  looking  curiously  grave. 
Then  he  looked  up,  and  met  the  glance  of  Julian's  bright, 
brave  eyes. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said.  "  One  never  likes  to  hear  one's 
life-work  belittled.  But  how  did  you  grow  so  wise  ?  Many 
people,  far  older  than  you,  do  not  know  the  truth  of  what 
you  say." 

"  I  know  some  of  them  do  not,"  said  Julian,  rather  anx- 
iously; "but  then  I  always  thought  them  stupid." 

He  laughed  out  at  that.  u  It  is  sometimes  said  that  most 
people  are  stupid." 


112  THE   MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

"Oh,  I  hope  riot — I  hope  not,"  said  the  girl,  with  fervour. 
"  It  would  be  dreadful  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  meet 
nothing  but  stupid  people  who  don't  understand  you.  It  is 
bad  enough  as  it  is  when  one  is  only  a — a  child;  but  I  have 
always  thought  it  would  be  nicer  when  I  was  old  enough  to 
choose  my  friends  for  myself.1' 

Looking  at  her  bright  original  face,  the  stranger  reflected 
that  this  young  lady  was  not  like  other  girls,  and  would 
probably  in  the  years  to  come  attract  to  herself  all  that  was 
brightest  and  best  in  the  society  in  which  she  moved.  His 
curiosity  was  stirred,  although  it  was  usually  a  difficult  mat- 
ter to  stir  it.  Where  did  she  come  from ;  this  girl,  who  was 
not  like  other  girls  ? 

"Do  you  live  here?"  he  asked,  rather  abruptly.  (She 
was  only  a  child:  it  was  not  rude  to  question  her.) 

"  Oh,  no,  I  come  from  London.  I  am  staying  at  Quest — 
the  farmhouse  by  the  Gap,  do  you  know  it  ?— with  friends. 
My  brother  is  with  me  too.  Edmund  Creighton;  do  you 
know  him  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  the  artist,  unexpectedly.  "I  know  him — 
slightly.     So  you  are  Miss  Creighton. " 

" No,  indeed!"  said  Julian,  laughing  merrily.  "I  have 
some  elder  sisters  who  are  the  Miss  Creightons " 

("  The  stupid  people,  I  suppose,"  said  the  stranger  to  him- 
self.) 

"  And  I'm  only  Julian.  Nobody  calls  me  anything  else. 
I  am  in  the  schoolroom  still,  and  shall  be  there  plenty  of 
time  longer,  I  fancy." 

"  You  will  be  coming  out  before  long  ?  " 

"  Not  for  two  or  three  years,  probably,"  said  the  girl, 
thereby  confirming  the  stranger  in  the  belief  in  her  youth. 
"  Mamma  says  she  does  not  want  three  daughters  to  chap- 
erone,  you  see.  But  where  did  you  know  Edmund  ?  Do  you 
come  to  our  house  ?  " 

The  artist  smiled.  "  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  been  to 
your  house.  I  have  been  very  often  to  your  father's 
office,  And  I  am  now  staying  at  Sir  Richard  Leyces- 
ter's  place,  where  your  brother  goes  to  shoot  sometimes. 


"LOOK  BEFORE   YOU  LEAP!"  113 

I  don't  suppose  he  will  remember  me:  we  were  not  intro- 
duced." 

"  I  was  hoping  you  were  a  friend  of  his,"  said  Julian, 
with  such  a  downcast  countenance  that  the  man  laughed 
aloud. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,"  he  said,  "  that  your  brother  will 
not  object  to  your  knowing  me.  I  am  quite  respectable." 
At  which  Julian  blushed  furiously.  "And  Miss  Verrall  of 
Quest  would  answer  for  me,  if  you  asked  her."  There  was 
a  look  of  humorous  amusement  on  his  face,  which  gave 
Julian  offence. 

"  I  shall  not  ask  them,"  she  said,  trying  to  be  stately,  and 
glancing  round  for  a  way  of  retreat.  "  If  you  are  staying 
at  Sir  Eichard  Leyeesters,  it  is  a  long  way  off,  and  we  are 
not  likely  to  meet  again." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  her  new  friend.  "  But  my  name  is 
John  l'Estrange.  You  might  like  to  tell  them  that  you  had 
met  me." 

There  was  a  certain  dignity  in  his  manner  that  quelled 
Julian's  hasty  wrath.  She  examined  him  furtively  from 
under  the  brim  of  the  straw  hat  which  she  had  now  placed 
on  her  head,  and  decided  that  although  his  velvet  coat  and 
slouch  hat  were  too  picturesque  to  be  quite  correct,  he  was, 
nevertheless,  a  gentleman,  and  a  person  to  be  trusted.  She 
was  not  usually  mistaken  in  her  intuition.  And  certainly 
she  was  not  mistaken  in  this  case. 

"  You  are  a  good  way  from  Quest,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange, 
kindly.     "  Did  you  come  here  quite  alone  ? " 

"No.  My  friend,  Miss  Lorimer,  brought  me,"  Julian 
answered,  more  primly  than  usual.  "  She  is  on  the  other 
side — you  can  see  her  if  you  look  round." 

"  I  see.     She  is  talking  to  some  one." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Moor  of  Moor  End.  Do  you  know  him, 
too  ?  He  met  us — he  often  meets  us,  and  goes  for  a  walk 
with  us." 

"  Francis  Moor  of  Moor  End  ? "  said  the  stranger.  It 
seemed  to  Julian  as  if  he  raised  his  eyebrows  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes ;  do  you  know  him,  then  ?  " 


114  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

14  Hardly.  I  have  had  some  correspondence  with  him, 
and  I  hope  to  know  him  better  by  and  by." 

"  I  suppose  you  meet  a  great  many  people  in  the  way  of 
your  profession  ?  People  who  are  interested  in  art — people 
who  buy  pictures,  I  mean,"  she  added,  bluntly,  seeing  that 
he  looked  oddly  at  sea  when  she  asked  her  first  question. 

44  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  laughing  quietly,  as  if  amused  at  his 
own  want  of  comprehension.  "I  do  meet  a  good  many  peo- 
ple. But  I  must  not  figure  under  false  pretences  as  an 
artist:  I  am  not  an  artist  by  profession." 

44  Are  you  not  ?"  cried  Julian.  u0h,  I  am  so  sorry.  I 
thought  you  must  be,  and  that  painting  was  your  life-work. 
But  what  is  your  life-work  ?  " 

He  was  leaning  against  the  steep  bank,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two  his  eyes  were  very  grave.  He  answered  soberly 
enough:  "  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know." 

44  But  what  are  you  ?    What  is  your  profession  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  sort  of  Jack-of-all-trades,  Miss 
Julian.  I  was  once  a  barrister,  and  I  have  done  a  little 
literary  work;  and  a  little  scientific  work;  and  I  paint,  as 
you  see." 

"Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Julian.  There  was  such  honest  dis- 
appointment in  her  face,  that  TEstrange  turned  to  her  with 
a  smile. 

"  Why,  what  else  do  you  want  ?  What  did  you  ex- 
pect?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  only  thought  that  you  looked  like  a 
man  that  did  something.  And  that  is  the  only  sort  of  man 
I  like,"  announced  Julian,  stubbornly. 

The  man's  mouth  twitched.  *■  But  my  difficulty  is,  that 
I  do  too  many  things — not  that  I  do  nothing. " 

u  Jack-of-all-trades — master  of  none,"  said  Julian. 

"That's  quite  true,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  kindly. 
"  You  have  got  very  good  and  right  ideas,  wherever  you 
may  have  learnt  them.  If  you  carry  them  out  in  your  own 
life,  you  will  be  a  noble  and  useful  woman." 

The  wind  was  taken  out  of  Julian's  sails  by  this  address. 
She  suddenly  realised  that  she  was  only  a  young  girl,  a 


JULIAN'S  WISH.  115 

mere  child,  by  the  side  of  this  man,  with  his  kind,  stately 
benevolence  of  bearing-,  whom  she  had  been  trying  with 
girlish  ignorance  to  teach  and  patronise.  She  turned  very 
red,  and  said  nothing  more. 

Seeing  her  embarrassment,  he  gently  directed  her  atten- 
tion to  some  rude  steps  cut  in  the  bank,  helped  her  up  them, 
and  handed  her  across  the  stepping-stones  by  which  she  had 
crossed  the  narrow  stream.  She  thanked  him  abruptly,  and 
fled  back  to  Alys  and  Frank,  who  were  not  very  grateful  to 
her  for  interrupting  their  colloquy.  However,  the  trio 
turned  back  to  Quest  together,  and  John  l'Estrange  becook 
himself  to  his  sketching  materials  again. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

JULIAN'S  WISH. 

If  A]ys  had  been  less  preoccupied,  Julian  would  at  once 
have  poured  into  her  ears  the  history  of  her  morning's  ad- 
venture. But  Miss  Lorimer's  attention  was  just  then  en- 
tirely absorbed  by  Frank  Moor;  and  by  the  time  Quest  was 
reached,  Julian,  lingering  behind  the  couple  for  most  of  the 
way,  had  resolved  to  say  nothing  about  it.  Even  Edmund 
was  always  reproaching  her  for  clumsiness,  although  not  so 
harshly  and  bitterly  as  they  did  at  home;  and  for  once  Ju- 
lian acknowledged  that  they  had  cause.  To  confess  that  she 
jumped  straight  into  somebody's  sketch— (u  and  it  is  a  won- 
der I  didn't  jump  straight  on  the  man  himself!"  thought 
Julian,  remorsefully)— would  be  too  humiliating.  Only— if 
Mr.  l'Estrange  knew  Edmund  and  her  father,  might  he  not 
mention  the  matter  to  them,  by  way  of  a  merry  jest  ?  And 
that  would  be  worse  than  anything. 

u  I  don't  believe  he  would ! "  said  the  child  to  herself, 
with  burning  cheeks.  "  He  would  know  that  I  should  be 
laughed  at,  and  I  think  he  would  understand !  He  seemed 
so  kind— I  don't  believe  he  would  ever  say  a  word." 


HQ  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST- 

And  she  was  right.  John  l'Estrange  had  no  intention  of 
mentioning  Julian's  unlucky  jump  to  anybody.  He  was  as 
sensitive  as  a  woman  where  anybody's  feelings  were  con- 
cerned. 

But  Julian  thought,  a  day  or  two  later,  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake. 

For  Edmund  came  home  from  his  shooting,  and  accosted 
her,  with  a  look  of  great  amusement. 

"  So  you  have  been  making  acquaintances  on  the  hillside, 
I  hear." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  said  Julian,  firing  up. 

uThe  acquaintance  himself,  I  suppose,"  returned  Ed- 
mund, provokingly.  "  Well,  he's  a  very  good  fellow ;  and 
it  doesn't  matter  if  you  talk  to  him;  but  I  wouldn't  advise 
you  to  chatter  to  every  man  you  meet  who  happens  to  be 
sketching  at  the  tarn.     It's  a  favourite  place  for  artists." 

He  walked  away,  not  troubling  himself  further ;  for  Ju- 
lian was  to  him,  as  to  all  her  family,  the  merest  child,  and 
he  was  not  really  ungratified  by  the  words  which  he  had 
heard  spoken  of  her  that  day ;  but  he  left  his  sister  stifling 
with  rage  and  shame  and  indignation.  "  So  that  was  what 
Mr.  l'Estrange  had  thought  of  her !  He  had  evidently  given 
Edmund  the  impression  that  she  had  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  him  of  her  own  accord — like  a  nasty,  forward, 
flirting  sort  of  girl !  He  had  no  doubt  told  the  story  of  the 
spoiled  sketch,  although  Edmund  did  not  allude  to  it.  Ed- 
mund would  probably  tease  her  about  it  just  when  she  did 
not  want  to  be  teased — at  dinner,  perhaps,  or  at  breakfast 
when  she  got  home !  She  hated  Mr.  l'Estrange,  and  would 
never  speak  to  anybody  again  who  had  not  been  properly 
introduced  to  her  in  a  drawing-room.  Perhaps  mamma  is 
right  after  all,  and  I  am  nothing  but  a  vulgar  tomboy,"  said 
Julian,  ruefully  surveying  herself  in  the  small  looking-glass 
which  Lisbeth  had  provided  for  her  use. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  tomboy  that  she  saw.  Her  short 
curls,  her  low,  broad  brow,  her  hazel  eyes,  and  mutinous  red 
mouth,  were  full  of  life  and  beauty.  She  only  saw  the  im- 
likeness  to  other  girls  of  her  acquaintance,  and  did  not  know 


JULIAN'S  WISH. 


117 


that  this  unlikeness  constituted  her  greatest  charm.  She 
made  a  grimace  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  then  was  sur- 
prised to  see  that  the  hazel  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  was 
weeping  over  her  lost  ideal  of  John  TEstrange. 

"  I  thought  him  so  kind— so  nice,"  she  was  saying  to  her- 
self. "  And  now  he  is  no  nicer  than  other  people,  and  I 
suppose  he  did  not  forgive  me  for  spoiling  his  sketch,  al- 
though he  pretended  that  he  did.  I'll  never  speak  to  him 
again.1' 

It  was  easy  to  make  this  resolution :  easy  to  stay  close  to 
the  house  or  at  Alys's  side  for  a  day  or  two :  not  so  easy 
to  keep  it  when  she  came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  l'Estrange 
one  day  in  the  public  road  that  wound  up  the  hill  from 
Oosthwaite  town.  She  went  so  far  as  to  give  him  a  stiff 
little  nod  and  try  to  pass  him  by;  but  the  man  actually 
stopped  short,  and  smiled,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

u  How  are  you,  Miss  Creighton  ?  I  met  your  brother  the 
other  day,  and  asked  after  you.  Don't  you  think  that  we 
may  consider  ourselves  old  acquaintances  after  that  ? " 

"  Somebody  has  been  talking  nonsense  to  the  child,  and 
putting  silly  notions  in  her  head,"  he  reflected,  looking 
steadily  at  Julian's  encardined  cheeks  and  shamed,  averted 
eyes.  u  Well,  I  won  t  have  it:  that  is  all.  She  shall  tell  me 
what's  the  matter." 

"  Have  I  offended  you  ? "  he  asked,  very  gently,  as  she 
allowed  him  to  take  her  little  hot  ungloved  hand  in  his. 

"  I  don't  know — at  least — I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Mr.  l'Es- 
trange  " 

Why  did  he  suddenly  look  so  astonished  ?  He  opened 
his  lips  as  if  to  intercept  her,  but  no  sound  came.  The  as- 
tonishment was  gradually  obliterated  by  the  flicker  of  a 
queer,  reluctant  smile. 

"  Of  course  I  don't  mind  what  any  one  tells  my  brother 
about  me — only  I  did  think  you  would  understand  what 
brothers  are  like,  and  that  you  would  not  say  how  stupid  I 
had  been!  Edmund  will  never  let  me  forget  it  as  long  as  I 
live;  and  I  had  so  much  rather  you  had  scolded  me  at  the 
time  than  told  him " 


118  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Told  him  that  I  had  talked  to  you  for  five  minutes  ? 
But  there  was  no  harm  in  that,'1  said  the  man,  astonishment 
again  predominant  in  his  face. 

"  I  don't  mean  that  in  the  least :  I  mean  about  the  sketch, 
and  my  spoiling  it,"  said  Julian,  almost  in  tears.  Then,  try- 
ing hard  to  be  dignified:  "  It  does  not  matter,  of  course; 
but  when  brothers  tease  a  girl  so  dreadfully  about  being 
awkward  and  uncivilised " 

"Does  your  brother  tease  you  in  that  way?"  said  Mr. 
l'Estrange,  the  smile  coming  uppermost.  "  But  I  assure  you 
it  is  not  my  fault  if  he  does.  What  did  he  say  ?  Because  I 
never  mentioned  the  sketch  to  him." 

"  You— did— not  mention— the  sketch  ?  " 

"  No.     Did  he  ? " 

"Well— no,"  said  Julian,  after  a  long  pause;  "  I  can't  say 
he  did.  But  I  have  been  expecting  him  to  talk  about  it  ever 
since;  I  am  sure  he  means  to,  because  he  looked  so  amused 
and  so  fanny  when  he  spoke  of  you,  and  he  advised  me  not 
to  chatter  to  everybody  I  met  on  a  hillside — so  I  thought  he 
knew." 

"  Did  he  advise  you  not  to  chatter  to  me  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  quite  frankly;  k'  he  said  I  might  talk 
to  you — you  were  a  good  fellow,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
Oh !— oughtn't  I  to  have  told  you  ?  Are  you  vexed  ?  "—for 
there  was  something  inexplicable  to  her  on  her  new  friend's 
face. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  gratified  at  hearing  Mr.  Edmund 
Creigh ton's  unbiassed  opinion  of  my  merits,"  said  the  man, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Well,  you  may  talk  to  me — and  I  am  a 
good  fellow — nothing  more  ?  " 

"  He  said  nothing  more  to  me." 

"  Not  even " 

He  stepped  suddenly,  and  looked  at  the  girl's  bright 
face. 

"  He  said  nothing  about  the  sketch,  indeed,  Mr.  l'Es- 
trange,"  said  Julian,  eagerly.  "  It  was  all  my  imagination. 
I  fancied  he  knew,  and  I  was  afraid  of  being  teased,  so  I 
only  spoke  of  you  that  once.     I  thought  it  rather  unkind 


JULIAN'S  WISH.  119 

of  you  to  have  given  him  such  a  handle  against  me,  you 
know." 

"But,  indeed,  I  did  not,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange,  and  his 
voice  sounded  unusually  soft  and  kindly.  "  I  only  mentioned 
that  I  met  you  and  talked  for  a  few  minutes  with  you — 
rather  as  making  a  sort  of  introduction  for  myself  than  any- 
thing else.  As  your  brother  does  not  object,  I  think  you 
might  as  well  give  me  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  look  at  an- 
other little  sketch  I  am  making — it  is  close  by." 

"  I  won't  hurt  it  this  time,"  said  Julian,  smiling.  "  But, 
if  you  are  sketching,  why  are  you  on  the  high-road  ? " 

"  Because  I  saw  you  from  a  distance,  and  hurried  down 
to  the  road  to  waylay  you.  I  thought  your  advice  on  my 
sketch  would  be  valuable." 

They  laughed  like  a  pair  of  children,  diverse  as  their  ages 
were ;  and  then  Mr.  l'Estrange  showed  her  a  stile  and  a  foot- 
path by  which  he  had  come  from  a  certain  coign  of  vantage 
on  the  hillside.  He  was  sketching  Quest  from  this  point, 
and  had  already  made  a  very  pretty  study  of  the  old  grey 
house. 

Julian  made  no  difficulty  about  staying  with  her  new 
friend.  He  had  found  a  clump  of  trees  near  the  stream, 
and  was  comfortably  ensconced  in  the  shade,  with  easel, 
camp-stool,  white  umbrella,  all  complete.  He  wanted  her 
to  take  the  stool,  but  she  preferred  the  dry  fragrant  grass 
with  a  rug  spread  over  it ;  and  here  she  sat  and  watched 
him,  while  he,  at  her  desire,  went  on  with  his  work.  He 
painted  skilfully,  she  could  see  that;  and  she  wondered 
much  why  he  had  not  adopted  art  as  a  profession. 

"  You  must  be  very  strong,"  she  said  at  length,  after  a 
pause. 

"  I  am  pretty  strong.     But  why  ?  " 

u  You  have  so  many  things  to  carry.  Camp-stool,  easel, 
paint-box,  and  things,  rug.  luncheon-basket,  I  declare.  You 
must  look  like  the  knight  in  the  Looking-glass  book,  if  you 
carry  all  these  at  once." 

"I  am  luxurious:  I  don't  carry  them  at  all.  My  man 
brought  them,  and  will  come  back  for  them  by  and  by." 


120  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  You  are  rich,  then,"  said  Julian,  meditating. 

"  Why  ?  It  is  not  a  ruinous  expense  to  have  one's  traps 
carried  to  a  place  and  brought  back  again,  is  it  ? " 

"No;  but  you  said  'my  man.'  That  means  your  serv- 
ant, don't  it  ?  Even  Edmund  has  not  '  a  man '  of  his 
own." 

"Perhaps  he  will  have  one  some  day.  We  bachelors 
are  very  self-indulgent  fellows,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange,  lightly. 
"  There  is  no  telling  w7hat  we  won't  do  to  save  ourselves 
trouble.     I  am  very  lazy :  I  like  to  be  waited  upon." 

"All  men  do,  I  think,"  said  Julian,  wisely.  "Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  were  rich  !  " 

Mr.  l'Estrange  had  just  begun  to  put  a  wash  of  colour 
over  his  sky.  For  some  reason  he  stopped  in  the  middle, 
and  let  his  brush  make  an  ugly  blur.  He  could  not  get  it 
out  afterwards,  and  it  spoiled  the  picture.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  reason  why  he  frowned  so  deeply  wrhen  he  spoke. 

"  Why  should  you  wish  to  be  rich  ? "  he  said,  in  a  vexed 
tone. 

"  If  I  were  rich,"  said  Julian,  her  eyes  dilating  and  her 
cheek  beginning  to  glow,  "  I  should  never  live  in  London 
any  more.     I  should  go  away  and  live  among  real  things." 

u  Real  things  ?  Aren't  houses  and  people  real  enough  for 
you  ? " 

"No;  I  mean  things  that  grow  out  of  the  earth:  trees, 
and  grass,  and  flowers.  I  would  not  go  to  parties  and  dance 
till  five  in  the  morning.  If  I  danced  at  all,  I  would  dance 
in  the  afternoon.  And  I  would  build  houses  in  the  country 
where  poor  people's  children,  who  were  ill  and  hungry,  you 
know,  should  come  and  stay ;  and  we  would  all  say,  '  Ugh, 
you  ugly,  smoky,  grimy  old  London,  we  hate  you,  and  we 
wish  you  didn't  exist ! '  " 

Mr.  l'Estrange's  brow  had  cleared.  He  broke  into  a 
laugh.     "  Have  you  been  reading  Ruskin,  child  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No.  Does  he  say  anything  like  that  ?  I  always  think 
that  that  is  what  I  should  like  to  do  if  I  were  rich." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  rich  some  day." 

"  Never.     There's  nobody  to  leave  me  any  money,"  said 


JULIAN'S  WISH.  121 

Julian,  blithely ;  "  and  as  I  can't  be  rich,  I  am  only  sorry 
that  I  can't  be  really  poor." 

a  Yon  are  an  enigmatical  young  person,"  said  l'Estrange, 
"  and  I  never  met  any  girl  quite  like  you.  Why  should  you 
wish  to  be  really  poor  ?  " 

"  It's  again  because  I  like  real  things.  I  don't  want  to 
have  to  think  about  my  dress,  and  how  I  can  pretend  that 
last  summer's  frock  is  a  new  one  or  that  I  have  three  hats 
instead  of  two.  I  don't  like  to  go  to  Scarborough  for  three 
days  and  pretend  I  was  there  for  weeks.  I  don't  like  having 
big  dinner  parties  and  skimping  for  a  month  afterwards.  I 
don't  mean  that  we  do  these  things,"  said  Julian,  turning 
red,  "  but  many  people  do,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  one  of 
them." 

"  You  have  seen  more  of  the  seamy  side  of  life  than  I 
thought,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange.  He  had  put  down  his  brushes, 
and  was  listening  attentively. 

"  I  have  eyes  and  ears,"  said  the  girl,  brusquely.  "  How 
can  one  help  seeing  and  hearing  ?  " 

"  But  what  would  you  like  to  be  if  you  were  really  poor  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  cottage-woman,  with  bread  to  make 
and  dishes  to  wash,  and  little  children  to  mind,"  said  Julian. 
"That  would  be  the  nicest  thing  in  all  the  world,  I  think. 
But  I  can't  be  that — and  the  worst  is  that  I  can't  hope  to  be 
allowed  to  take  a  degree  and  become  a  High  School  teacher ! " 

"  Well,  you  have  a  remarkable  variety  of  ambitions,"  said 
Mr.  l'Estrange,  "  and  quite  incompatible  ones,  apparently. 
I  wish  I  could  gratify  any  of  them  for  you,  but  I  don't  quite 
see  how  I  can  ! " 

"No,  I  should  think  not!"  and  Julian  laughed  at  the 
idea. 

"  Except  one,"  said  her  friend,  very  deliberately. 

"One!  You  could  gratify  one!  What  do  you  mean, 
Mr.  l'Estrange  ? " 

He  laughed,  and  went  on  painting. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  could  persuade  papa  and 
mamma  to  send  me  to  Girton,"  said  she,  pensively ;  "  but  I 
assure  you  that  you  are  mistaken.     They  don't  wish  me  to 


122  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

go.  They  say  they  don't  like  the  effect  of  so  much  educa- 
tion on  women.  You  are  quite  wrong  :  you  couldn't  get 
them  to  let  me  be  a  teacher." 

"  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,"  he  said.  "  There's  no  other 
way,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Julian,  wonderingly. 

Then  there  was  a  silence,  during  which  she  looked  at  the 
landscape,  and  he  painted  vigorously,  but  without  much  re- 
gard for  the  effect  of  his  dashes  of  colour. 

"Julian,"  he  said  at  last,  UI  may  call  you  Julian,  may  I 
not  ?  You  must  remember  this :  that  our  best  wishes  some- 
times disappoint  us  most  keenly.  Even  if  you  never  have 
what  you  think  you  want  most,  don't  be  disappointed  or 
soured,  as  if  life  had  cheated  you.  Things  always  come  to 
an  end  at  last,  and  you  see  that  what  you  have  had  has  been 
the  best  for  you." 

His  words  were  meant  to  be  cheering,  but  they  sounded 
as  if  they  dropped  from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  knew  what 
disappointment  meant.     Julian  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"  I  do  not  like  that  view,"  she  said.  "  I  would  rather  say 
that  things  mended,  not  ended,  and  that  you  are  going  to 
get  what  is  best  for  you  by  and  by,  if  you  don't  get  it  now." 

"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  that,"  he  said,  laying 
down  his  brushes  again.  "  Julian,  you  are  wonderfully  wise 
for  your  age — what  is  your  age,  by  the  by,  if  I  may  ask  ? " 

"  I  am  seventeen." 

u  Seventeen  ? "  He  turned  upon  her  sharply.  "  You  are 
joking — you  meaniLfteen  ?" 

"  No,  indeed.  I  was  seventeen  last  birthday.  Why 
not?" 

"  You  seemed  such  a  child,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"  That's  because  of  my  short  hair  and  short  frocks.  Next 
year  1  am  to  let  my  hair  grow,  and  have  my  dresses  longer." 

"  And  then  you  will  come  out  and  be  a  modern  young 
lady!" 

"  I  can't  help  myself,"  said  Julian,  almost  bitterly. 

"  No,  poor  child !  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  Mr.  TEstrange, 
relapsing  into  a  grave  mood,  and  staring  straight   before 


LOVE  OR  LIFES  123 

him.  He  sat  silent  so  long  that  Julian  at  last  found  it  dull, 
and  rose  from  her  lowly  seat  upon  the  rug,  saying  that  she 
must  go.  He  did  not  try  to  detain  her.  He  shook  hands, 
and  lifted  his  hat  very  ceremoniously,  and  stood  for  some 
little  time  after  she  had  turned  into  the  pathway  that  led 
across  the  hill  to  Quest.  Then  he  seated  himself  again,  arid 
began  to  meditate. 

u  Seventeen !  I  never  dreamt  it.  What  a  pity  it  will  be 
to  see  that  fine  young  nature  deteriorating  to  the  level  of  the 
poor  creatures  amongst  whom  she  lives!  It  will  deteriorate: 
there  is  no  doubt  of  that. 

"  I  suppose  I  might  prevent  it  if  I  chose,''  he  went  on, 
with  an  odd  smile.  "  1  might,  as  I  said,  give  her  one  of  her 
wishes— she  would  promise  anything  just  now.  No,  it  would 
not  be  fair.  She  must  see  the  world  for  herself.  She  is  only 
seventeen,  aud  I  have  lived  twenty  years  longer  than  she 
has  done.  It  would  be  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  her 
youth,  and  she  would  have  the  right  to  reproach  me  after- 
wards. Poor  little  girl !  I  hope  I  shall  hear  about  her  from 
time  to  time." 

He  sighed,  shook  his  head,  and  looked  critically  at  his 
wTork.  He  had  spoilt  it:  there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  Pres- 
ently he  put  up  his  sketching  materials,  and  threw  himself 
down  on  the  rug  for  a  quiet  smoke.  But  every  now  and 
then  an  irresistible  smile  curled  his  lips,  and  he  took  his  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth,  to  say,  half  aloud — 

"  Would  they  say  I  was  mad  if  I  gave  Julian  her  wish  ? " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LOVE  OR  LIFE  ? 

Matters  were  in  an  unsatisfactory  state  at  Quest.  Lis- 
beth  was  unhappy,  and  therefore  a  trifle  more  strict  with 
herself  and  everybody  else— except  Alys— than  usual;  Alys 
was    preoccupied;    and    Edmund    Creighton    was    piqued. 


124  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Julian  only  was  merry  and  bright  as  usual,  but  she  was  not 
much  to  the  fore,  for  Mr.  l'Estrange  had  offered  to  give  her 
sketching  lessons,  and  she  seemed  a  good  deal  absorbed  in 
the  manipulation  of  her  water-colours. 

Edmund  had  relinquished  his  shooting  expeditions  with 
the  Leycester  party.  He  said  that  he  had  only  two  or  three 
days  longer  to  stay,  and  that  he  meant  to  devote  them  to 
Alys  and  his  sister.  He  had  taken  up  his  quarters  at  the 
hotel  in  Crosthwaite,  where  he  could  be  more  at  ease  than  at 
Quest;  but  he  came  to  Quest  every  day,  much  to  Frank 
Moor's  dissatisfaction. 

"Why  does  that  fellow  come  here  so  constantly?"  he 
asked  of  Alys :  and  Alys  answered,  with  a  faint  increase  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks — 

"  His  sister  is  here.  And  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine— we 
have  known  each  other  ever  since  we  were  children." 

While  Edmund  in  his  turn  observed — 

"  Moor  of  Moor  End,  as  the  good  people  call  him,  hangs 
about  Quest  a  good  deal,  apparently.  Is  he  a  friend  of  Miss 
Verrall's,  or  of  yours  ? " 

14  Oh,  of  both,  I  think,"  said  Alys,  with  a  much  brighter 
colour  in  her  face  than  when  she  had  spoken  of  Edmund  to 
Frank. 

"An  idle,  sentimental  sort  of  fellow,  I  should  think," 
said  the  young  lawyer,  drily.    "Looks  like  a  troubadour." 

"  He  is  very  handsome,"  said  Alys,  greatly  indignant. 

"  Handsome  ?  Hm,  yes.  Eather  Byronic.  The  type  is 
obsolete,  rather,  don't  you  think  ?  When  he  has  knocked 
about  the  world,  and  been  Eaynflete's  secretary  for  a  year 
or  two,  he  will  lose  that  air  of  subdued  melancholy  which 
women  call  'interesting.'  " 

Alys  did  not  reply,  but  looked  so  much  vexed  and  hurt 
that  Edmund  saw  fit  to  soften  down  his  opinions  a  little. 

44  He  is  rather  like  a  Vandyke  portrait  at  present,  and 
that  is  a  distinct  offence  to  us  plainer  men,"  he  said,  smiling. 
And  Alys  laughed  out,  as  one  who  was  pleased  by  a  frank 
acknowledgment  of  jealousy. 

The  quaint,  pretty  garden  at  Quest  was  at  its  brightest 


LOVE  OR  LIFE?  125 

autumnal  glory.  The  flowers  were  not  so  fragrant  as  in 
summer;  they  were  deeper  hued  than  those  of  spring;  but 
the  single  dahlias  and  hollyhocks,  Japanese  anemones  and 
zinnias,  had  a  beauty  of  their  own  which  compensated  for 
what  was  lost.  Alys  had  deserted  the  doorstep  in  favour  of 
a  bench  among  the  blossoming  shrubs,  where  she  liked  to 
dream  away  her  time  over  a  book;  and  it  was  there  that 
Edmund  found  her  one  evening  before  he  went  home.  It 
was  not  by  accident  that  she  was  alone,  for  he  had  spoken  a 
word  to  Lisbeth,  and  she  had  undertaken  to  keep  Julian  out 
of  the  way. 

"  I  wish  you  luck,  Mr.  Creighton,"  Lisbeth  said,  looking 
at  him  sadly,  out  of  her  great  sorrowful  eyes,  "but  I  am 
afraid  you  won't  succeed." 

k'  I  have  never  failed  yet,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  in  anything 
I  have  attempted." 

u  You  may  have  been  forestalled." 

"  No,  I  have  not,"  he  said,  with  a  nicker  of  light  in  his 
cool  grey  eyes;  "I  may  have  been  superseded — but  I  was 
the  first." 

"  Ah,  why  did  you  not  make  sure  before  she  came  away  ?" 
cried  Lisbeth  passionately. 

Why  did  he  not  ?  He  held  down  his  head  and  went 
away.  He  knew  he  had  been  to  blame.  If  he  had  spoken 
soon  enough,  spoken  decisively,  spoken  strongly  and  warm- 
ly, Alys  would  have  promised  him  her  hand. 

She  was  rather  a  slight  thing — this  Alys  Lorimer:  sweet 
and  tender  and  innocent,  but  in  no  way  strong:  not  like 
Lisbeth,  who  would  always  have  known  whether  she  loved 
a  man  or  not,  and  having  made  up  her  mind  about  it,  would 
love  him  to  the  end.  It  sometimes  seemed,  even  to  Alys's 
lovers  and  admirers,  as  if  her  soul  were  not  quite  awake :  as 
if  her  heart  were  yet,  in  a  sense,  untouched.  There  were 
possibilities  in  her  nature  of  which  she  herself  was  not 
aware.  But,  such  as  she  was,  Edmund  Creighton  was  de- 
termined to  make  her  his;  and  he  told  himself  that  he 
could  make  her  love  him,  whether  she  had  had  a  fancy  for 
Francis  Moor  or  not,  if  once  she  were  his  wife. 
9 


126  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Full  of  this  thought,  he  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  bench, 
and  began  to  talk  gently  pf  the  beauty  of  the  scene  before 
him,  of  the  darkening  violet  sky  and  the  stars  that  glim- 
mered faintly  above  the  hills. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  the  place,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  I  am  sorry  you  are  going.  Could  you  not  leave 
Julian  behind  ? " 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Her  mother  writes  that  lessons  ought 
to  begin  before  long." 

''It  has  been  so  nice  to  have  her  here." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do,  Alys  ?  Shall  you  stay  with 
your  sister  all  through  the  winter  ? " 

"I — suppose  so." 

"  It  will  be  very  cold  for  you,"  said  Edmund,  watching 
the  changes  of  colour  in  her  face. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  healthy.  I  am  ever  so  much  stronger  than 
when  I  came." 

"  You  look  better.  But  I  must  confess  " — and  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders— "that  I  should  dread  those  fierce  gusts  which 
will  tear  down  from  the  hills,  and  the  dreary  desolation  of 
snow,  which  sometimes  lies,  they  tell  me,  upon  the  ground 
till  May.  It  will  take  a  strong  constitution  to  stand  it ;  and 
yours  is  not  very  strong — and  you  have  lived  in  towns  and 
in  warmer  countries  nearly  all  your  life." 

Alys's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Ed- 
mund was  wantonly  cruel.    But  he  went  on  remorselessly. 

"  It  will  be  awfully  lonely  too.  Your  sister  seems  to  be 
always  busy,  and  she  sees  no  society.  Of  course  she  is  not 
quite  of  the  class  to  which  you  are  accustomed— she  is 
splendid,  admirable,  everything  that  is  good,  I  know;  but 
she  is  not  quite  of  our  world.  You  can't  deny  that,  surely  ! 
Shall  you  not  feel  the  absence  of  congenial  companionship 
a  good  deal  ? " 

She  did  not  reply,  and,  looking  at  her,  he  saw  the  gleam 
of  a  tear  upon  her  cheek.  He  spoke  again,  gazing  straight 
into  her  face,  as  if  quite  unconcerned. 

"  Even  your  friend  Mr.  Moor  will  be  away ;  and— I  think 
Lady  Adela  has  not  recognised  your  existence  ? " 


LOVE  OR  LIFE?  127 

Alys  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Edmund,  how 
unkind  you  are  !  I  know — it  will  be  terrible ;  but  what  can 
I  do  ? " 

"You  are  right;  it  will  be  terrible,''  said  Mr.  Edmund 
Creighton,  quietly.  "Very  especially  terrible  for  you,  who 
have  not  been  accustomed  to  roughing  it.  Crosthwaite  is 
lovely  in  summer,  no  doubt;  but  in  winter  ! — I  think  you 
should  consult  a  doctor,  Alys,  if  I  may  say  so,  as  to  whether 
your  chest  is  strong  enough  to  bear  the  winter's  cold." 

If  he  wanted  to  frighten  her,  he  had  succeeded.  She 
looked  up  with  scared  wet  eye. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to  bear  it,  Edmund  ? " 

"  It  depends  on  what  you  call  bearing  it,"  he  said,  gloom- 
ily. "  Your  father  always  said  your  lungs  were  delicate :  of 
course  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  there  is  nothing— nothing  else  for  me  to  do,"  said 
Alys. 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Poor  little  thing!  I  shall  often 
think  of  you,  Alys,  when  I  am  in  London,  and  hear  the 
wind  howl  round  the  houses,  and  see  the  snow  lying  white 
on  the  streets.  Storms  don't  last  long  in  London,  thank 
Heaven ;  we  shall  be  well  on  into  spring  while  you  are  still 
imprisoned  by  drifts,  and  Quest  is  shaken  to  its  foundation 
by  the  tempest.  I  shall  think  of  you  as  a  little  bird  in  a 
cage — shut  up,  out  of  the  world,  a  prisoner." 

"They  say— Mr.  Moor  says— that  winter  here  is  quite 
lovely,"  said  Alys,  in  a  shaken  voice. 

"  Possibly— for  a  man!  There's  plenty  of  skating,  no 
doubt.  I  think  you  will  have  to  make  up  your  mind  to  stop 
indoors  for  three  months,  Alys." 

"  Lisbeth  does  not  stay  indoors." 

"  You  are  not  Lisbeth.  You  have  had  a  different  train- 
ing. She  is  a  hardy  mountain  annual,  and  you — poor  child ! 
— you  are  a  delicate  exotic,  just  out  of  your  hot-house,  and 
about  to  be  exposed  to  the  rigours  of  a  northern  winter.  I 
don't  like  thinking  of  it— I  don't,  indeed!  " 

"  There  is  nothing  else,"  said  Alys  again,  in  an  extin- 
guished tone. 


128  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

She  was  thinking  how  true  it  was,  all  that  he  had  said ; 
that  she  would  never  be  able  to  bear  her  life  at  Quest  when 
Francis  had  gone  away,  when  Julian  and  Edmund  had 
abandoned  her.  She  loved  Lisbeth,  but  she  did  not  feel  the 
real  strength  and  grandeur  of  LisbetlTs  character.  To  her 
Lisbeth  was  only  a  protective  power — kindly  and  generous, 
but  unimportant  and  uncongenial ;  she  was  not  quite  capable 
of  seeing  the  nobler  side. 

"  There  is  something  else,"  said  Edmund,  quietly,  "if  you 
would  accept  it." 

uNo,  no,"  she  cried,  wishing  to  silence  him;  "there  is 
nothing  else." 

"  Listen,  Alys.  I  did  not  speak  definitely  enough  before 
you  left  London ;  but  I  thought  you  understood — I  thought 
I  had  said  enough  to  let  you  know.  I  have  hoped  for  a  very 
long  time  now  that  you  would  let  me  make  a  home  for  you 
—a  warm,  sheltered  nest,  where  you  would  be  safe  from  all 
the  winds  that  blow.  Let  me  speak,  dearest:  do  not  inter- 
rupt me  yet.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  Perhaps  you 
do  not  care  for  me  so  much  as  I  care  for  you— perhaps  it  is 
in  a  different  way;  but  you  do  like  me  a  little,  Alys;  I  am 
sure  you  do— isn't  that  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes— yes— a  little,"  said  Alys,  tremulously.  " More 
than  a  little:  a  great  deal — but  not " 

"  No,  I  know  that :  not  as  much  as  I  care  for  you,"  said 
Edmund,  taking  for  granted  that  he  knew  what  she  was 
going  to  say.  "  But  that  would  come  in  time.  I  could  make 
you  very  happy,  Alys.  You  should  have  everything  you 
wanted:  your  nest  should  be  soft  as  eiderdown.  I  have 
waited  until  I  had  enough  to  offer  you ;  I  am  able  now  to 
think  of  a  house  of  my  own,  where  we  could  be  happy 
together;  and  if  I  was  not  sufficiently  explicit  before,  I  will 
be  so  now.  I  love  you,  Alys,  and  I  want  you  to  be  my 
wife." 

"It  cannot  be,  Edmund." 

"Why  not,  dear  ?  You  know  I  consider  that  you  are 
really  half  promised  to  me.  You  know  I  thought  so  before 
you  left  London " 


LOVE  OR  LIFE?  120 

"Oh,  wo,  Edmund!" 

"  Indeed,  I  did,  and  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  not  keep 
your  promise,"  said  Edmund,  purposely  exaggerating  a  little 
what  had  passed  between  them.  "  Circumstances  have 
changed  only  on  my  side:  on  yours,  Alys,  surely  they  have 
not  changed  ? " 

She  turned  her  head  away  and  twisted  her  slender  fin- 
gers. This  claim  of  his  confused  and  frightened  her.  She 
had  never  thought  of  herself  as  bound  in  any  way. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I  will  not  mince  my  words. 
If  you  stay  here,  Alys,  for  the  winter,  you  will  die.  You 
are  too  frail  and  weak  to  support  the  cold.  You  will  fade 
away  like  the  hothouse  flower  that  I  said  you  were;  and 
when  it  is  too  late  you  will  regret  the  choice  that  you  have 
made.  You  had  better  come  away  while  there  is  time. 
You  were  not  made  for  these  bleak  heights  and  snowy 
moorlands,  little  tender  child  that  you  are !  I  will  give  you 
back  all  that  has  been  missing  in  your  life— music,  art, 
colour,  warmth— love.  Is  it  not  worth  something,  Alys  ? 
And  remember  that  the  alternative  is  death." 

His  voice  sank  to  an  impressive  whisper.  He  was  not 
insincere,  for  he  truly  believed  that  Alys  would  suffer 
severely  from  the  cold  of  the  Crosthwaite  region ;  but  per- 
haps he  used  superlatives  a  trifle  freely.  He  knew  Alys 
well,  and  he  knew  how  to  work  upon  her  emotions. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  die  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  fright- 
ened look  at  him. 

"  I  think  so.  I  cannot  help  it— I  must  say  what  I  think. 
Alys,  my  darling,  don't  expose  yourself  to  such  a  frightful 
risk.    Let  me  save  you— let  me  make  you  happy." 

He  stole  his  hand  towards  her.  His  eyes  burned  with  a 
strange  light ;  his  face  was  very  pale.  But  as  soon  as  she 
felt  his  fingers  upon  hers,  she  recoiled. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  pushing  his  hand  away.  "  I  can't  do 
it.  I  can't  help  it.  If  I  die,  I  die,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it. 
But  I  cannot  marry  you." 

"  You  think  so  at  this  moment,  but  you  will  not  always 
think  so,"  said  Edmund,  in  his  softest  voice.     "  I  love  you, 


130  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

but  I  won't  plead  for  my  love.  I  plead  for  your  own  life 
and  happiness.  Save  yourself,  darling.  Come  away  with 
me:  we  could  be  married  directly,  and  you  would  be  out  of 
danger.     I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  behind." 

"  But  you  must,  Edmund.  If  I  am  to  die— I  can't  help 
it.  Perhaps  Lisbeth  will  take  me  away  somewhere.  But  I 
cannot  love  you— I  cannot  marry  you— because— I  love 
some  one  else." 

Her  voice  was  barely  audible,  and  her  face  was  crim- 
soned with  blushes.  Edmund  drew  his  hand  away,  but 
kept  his  eyes  on  her  face. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  in  a  changed  voice,  "that  it  is 
Francis  Moor." 

She  would  not  answer,  but  he  saw  her  throat  quiver,  and 
she  put  up  her  hand  to  hide  the  trembling  of  her  mouth. 

"  You  need  not  say  anything.  I  suppose  you  are  keep- 
ing it  a  secret  ?  I  can  see  it  all  in  your  face.  It  is  Francis 
Moor  ?  Very  well,  Alys,  I  will  tell  you  something  else.  It 
is  Francis  Moor — and  it  is  suicide  as  well." 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  he  restrained  her. 

"He  cannot  marry  you  now,  and  transplant  you  to  the 
climate  in  which  you  could  live  and  nourish.  You  would 
not  even  be  better  off  at  Moor  End.  It  is  madness,  Alys. 
Let  me  counsel  you  as  a  friend— not  as  a  lover,  for  one  mo- 
ment. Your  wisest  course  would  be  to  throw  over  your 
girlish  fancy  for  Mr.  Moor,  and  marry  me  at  once." 

"I  could  not  be  so  false — to  him." 

"  If  he  loves  you  truly,  he  would  advise  you  to  do  it. 
Look  here,  Alys :  it  is  a  choice  between  life  and  love.  If 
you  choose  love— that  is  Frank  Moor,  you  die,  as  surely  as 
if  I  stabbed  you  to  the  heart ;  if  you  marry  me,  you  choose 
life.     Which  shall  it  be  ? " 

"Love,"  said  Alys;  and  in  the  starlight  he  saw  that  her 
small  white  face  was  transfigured  as  if  by  angelic  radiance 
of  truth  and  constancy.  "  I  would  rather  die  here  than  live 
to  marry  you." 

He  winced,  as  if  she  had  struck  him  in  the  face. 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Alys  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  lower  tone. 


LOVE  OR  LIFE?  131 

"  I  do  mean  it.  I  do  not  want  to  die — life  is  too  sweet — 
but  I  will  stay  here  and  be  true  to  Frank,  even  if  it  means 
my  death.  It  is  no  use  tempting  me,  Edmund ;  I  have  made 
up  my  mind." 

"  And  I  have  not  unmade  mine,"  said  Edmund,  calmly, 
as  he  rose  from  his  seat.  u  I  believe  that  some  day  you  will 
see  your  mistake,  and  turn  to  me  for  help.  I  shall  always 
be  ready,  Alys ;  and  you  will  long  by  and  by  for  sunshine 
and  happiness  and  love." 

He  felt  that  he  could  say  no  more  just  then;  he  had 
failed  where  he  had  been  most  certain  of  success,  and  he 
was  too  wise  to  persevere  in  a  hopeless  task.  His  strength 
lay  in  patience:  he  believed  that  Alys  would  ultimately 
change  her  mind. 

He  passed  out  of  the  garden  into  the  yard,  leaving  Alys 
to  cry  her  heart  out  on  the  garden-bench.  He  had  fright- 
ened her,  but  he  had  not  moved  her  will.  She  was  still  true 
to  the  man  who  had  won  her  love. 

Edmund  came  suddenly  upon  Zadock  in  the  yard.  The 
half-witted  man  was  engaged  as  he  had  been  when  Frank 
Moor  once  spoke  to  him— in  polishing  a  knife.  Edmund 
stopped  and  spoke  to  him  carelessly. 

u  Fine  knife  that,  Zadock !«?' 

Zadock  grinned  horribly.  "  Knife  good.  Knife  for 
squoire,"  he  said  deliberately. 

"  What !  as  a  present  ? " 

Zadock  shook  his  head.  "  Squoire  Moor  bad  man,"  he 
replied.     "  Zadock  kill  him  some  day — with  knife." 

Edmund  Creighton's  heart  gave  a  strange  bound.  Was 
it  of  joy  or  fear?  He  asked  himself  whether  it  was  his  duty 
to  take  the  knife  away. 

"  Why  ? "  he  said  briefly.     "  What  for  ? " 

Zadock's  eyes  gleamed.  "  He  make  Lisbeth  cry.  He  kiss 
her — missy.  Missy  over  there;"  and  his  face  grew  black 
with  anger,  as  he  pointed  towards  the  garden.  u  He  sorry 
some  day." 

"  I  hope  he  will  be,"  said  Edmund  drily,  and  tossed  the 
idiot  half-a-crown  as  he  turned  away. 


132  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

He  had  a  curious  difficulty  in  getting-  rid  of  the  notion 
that  he  ought  to  have  taken  the  knife  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"i  WILL  REMEMBER.1' 

Julian's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  so  was  the  tip 
of  her  nose.  It  is  not  becoming  to  any  one  to  weep  vio- 
lently, but  she  had  hardly  arrived  at  the  stage  when  a  girl 
thinks  of  what  is  becoming.  Her  hair  was  in  a  tangled 
mass,  partly  hiding  her  forehead,  and  her  comxnexion  was 
decidedly  patchy.  She  had  never  looked  less  pretty  in  her 
life,  and  she  did  not  care.  She  was  quite  alone,  sitting  on  the 
grassy  patch  of  broken  bank  beside  the  narrowing  stream 
below  the  tarn;  and  she  did  not  think  that  any  one  could 
see  her,  or  would  find  her  out.  But  she  was  mistaken ;  for 
some  one  else  had  wandered  down  the  borders  of  the  tarn ; 
and  he,  her  friend,  Mr.  l'Estrange,  had  soon  caught  sight 
of  her,  and  had  recognised  the  fact  that  she  wTas  in  a  state  of 
woe. 

Some  men  would  have  recognised  it  only  in  order  to 
make  their  escape  unseen;  but  l'Estrange  was  not  a  man  of 
that  kind.  His  heart  went  out  to  the  child  when  he  saw 
that  she  was  in  trouble,  and  he  wondered  what  he  could  do 
to  comfort  her.  He  made  a  long  circuit,  so  as  to  approach 
her  cautiously,  yet  not  to  come  upon  her  unawares.  She 
should  have  a  chance  of  escape,  if  she  did  not  wish  to  talk 
to  him.  Some  girls  would  be  glad  to  run  away  and  hide 
their  reddened  eyes. 

But  Julian,  although  she  must  have  seen  him  coming, 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  run  away.  She  sat,  crouching  mis- 
erably on  the  grass  with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees, 
and  a  damp  ball  of  a  handkerchief  twisted  up  in  one  of 
them.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  running  water  at  her 
feet,  and  even  when  Mr.  l'Estrange  approached  her,  she  did 


"I  WILL   REMEMBER."  133 

not  lift  them,  or  show  by  any  movement  that  she  was  aware 
of  his  presence. 

"  Shall  I  disturb  you  ? "  he  inquired,  from  between  the 
trees  on  the  bank,  whence  he  could  look  down  on  her  tou- 
sled chestnut  head. 

uOh,  no!  Please  come — I  wanted  to  see  you,"  said 
Julian,  with  passionate  emphasis. 

He  came  down,  wondering.  What  was  the  matter  with 
this  little  girl  whose  frankness  and  innocence  had  seemed  to 
him  so  delicious?  And  would  she  tell  him  what  was  wrong, 
or  would  she  altogether  ignore  the  facts  of  reddened  eyes 
and  rumpled  hair? 

Evidently  Julian  was  not  disposed  to  make  a  secret  of  her 
woe.  She  unclasped  her  hands  and  held  out  one  to  him  in 
greeting,  and  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  once  more  swimming 
in  sorrowful  tears. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  said,  forgetting  that  she 
was  anything  but  a  child  in  trouble. 

"Oh,  Mr.  l'Estrange!  We're  going  away  —  to-mor- 
row ! " 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,1'  l'Estrange  said,  holding  the 
little  hot  hand  very  kindly,  and  looking  down  at  her  flushed 
and  tear-stained  face  with  honest  sympathy.  "  Is  it  not  very 
sudden?" 

''  Yes,  indeed.  I  thought  we  were  to  have  a  fortnight 
longer;  and — Miss  Verrall  had  asked  me  to  stay  on  with 
Alys  for  a  time !  but  mamma  has  written  to  say  she  won't 
hear  of  it." 

"  Does  she  not  like  your  being  here  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  for  a  time !  But  she  says  she  sees  that  I  am 
getting  quite  out  of  hand,  and  shall  not  be  fit  for  anything 
when  I  come  back  to  London." 

"  What  does  she  mean  by  that  ? "  said  l'Estrange,  with 
an  irrepressible  smile.  He  seated  himself  beside  her  as  he 
spoke. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Julian,  rather  hesitatingly,  "  she 
wants  me  to  get  married." 

This  was  a  piece  of  frankness  which  apparently  startled 


134  THE   MISTRESS   OF   QUEST. 

Mr.  l'Estrange.  He  looked  at  her  sharply,  with  a  curious 
darkening  of  his  brows,  as  if  some  suspicious  thought  had  en- 
tered his  head ;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  is  so  necessary:  do  you  ? "  said  Ju- 
lian, twisting  her  handkerchief  round  her  fingers.  "  You 
were  never  married,  were  you  ?  " 

"  No,  child,  no.'1     He  turned  away  his  head. 

"  Oughtn't  I  to  have  said  it  ?  Have  I  vexed  you  ? "  she 
asked  wistfully.  ''  I  didn't  know  that  people  minded— when 
— when  they  were — grown  up " 

u  When  they  were  my  age,  you  meant,"  he  said,  turning 
again  towards  her,  with  a  kindly  smile.  "  But  you  know  I 
do  not  seem  so  very  old  to  myself.  I  am  thirty-seven.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  suppose  that  does  seem  old  to  you.  I  never  married, 
because  the  woman  I  loved  when  I  was  little  more  than  a 
boy,  married  some  one  else.  That  is  all.  Not  very  much  of 
a  story,  is  it  ? " 

"And  you  cared  a  great  deal  ? "  said  the  girl,  softly. 

"  Yes,  I  cared  a  great  deal.  My  God,  yes ! "  He  said  the 
last  word  almost  under  his  breath,  and  Julian  shrank  a  little 
involuntarily  and  felt  afraid.  Why  she  put  the  next  ques- 
tion— a  question  which  had  a  curious  effect  upon  the  hearer 
— she  never  knew. 

"And — do  you  care  now  f "  she  said. 

To  her  surprise,  l'Estrange  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  a 
few  paces  away  from  her.  He  stood  looking  out  at  the 
water  for  some  few  minutes,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  girl, 
and  she  remained  silent,  her  own  griefs  almost  forgotten  in 
the  consideration  of  his  new  and  strange  emotion.  When 
he  came  back  to  her  his  face  was  pale,  and  there  was  a  new 
expression  in  his  kind  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  said,  quietly,  u  whether  I  care  now 
— or  not." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  pressed  his  arm  gently,  by  way 
of  showing  sympathy.  "  I  hope  you  don't,"  she  said.  "  I 
don't  like  to  think  of  your  being  sorry  all  these  years— and 
of  going  on  to  be  sorry  for  years  to  come — for  what  can't  be 
helped." 


"I  WILL  REMEMBER."  135 

It  was  quaintly  expressed,  but  the  feeling  was  genuine 
enough. 

"You  are  right;  it  is  wasted  time,"  said  l'Estrange,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Wasted  time,  wasted  affection,  wasted  emo- 
tion; true  enough,  though  nobody  has  had  the  courage  to 
tell  me  so  before.  Well — perhaps,  if  I  meet  you  again,  I 
shall  be  able  to  tell  you  that  I  do  not  care." 

"Shall  we  ever  meet  again?"  said  Julian;  and  the 
bright  drops  started  to  her  eyes  again. 

"You  cannot  care,  surely,  whether  we  meet  again  or 
not  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  touch  of  scepticism — perhaps  as- 
sumed for  the  occasion — in  his  tone. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do.  You  have  been  so  kind  to  me.  I 
should  often  have  been  very  lonely  if  I  had  not  met  you.  I 
thought,"  said  the  girl  reproachfully,  "  that  you  would  be 
sorry  too  that  I  was  going  away." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sorry." 

There  was  some  abruptness  in  the  tone  of  the  reply, 
which  made  Julian  look  at  him  earnestly.  But  she  could 
not  quite  understand  either  his  tone  or  the  look  upon  his 
face.  His  eyebrows  were  knitted,  his  eyes  fixed  absently 
upon  the  water ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  not  look  at  her. 

"  I  never  met  anybody  who  helped  me  so  much  with  my 
sketching,"  Julian  went  on,  in  regretful  tones.  "And  you 
have  been  so  kind.  I  was  so  glad  I  had  met  you,  and  that 
Edmund  knew  you,  too.  And  now  I  have  to  go  back  to  hor- 
rible smoky  old  London." 

"  Yes,  and  you  have  not  told  me  exactly  why  you  had  to 
go  back  so  soon,"  said  l'Estrange.  "You  said  something 
about— marriage.  Surely  your  mother  is  not  thinking  of 
marriage  for  you — yet ! " 

Julian  laughed — rather  hysterically ;  but  the  sound  was 
pleasant  to  the  listener's  ear. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not  out  yet— I'm  in 
short  frocks:  I'm  a  little  girl.  I  thought  I  was  not  to  come 
out  for  two  or  three  years.  Mamma  can't  bear  the  idea  of 
taking  three  girls  about  with  her.  But  my  eldest  sister's 
just  engaged  to  be  married,  and  mamma's  very  pleased  about 


136  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

it,  and  writes  to  me  that  now  I  can  come  out  next  season, 
and  that  I  must  come  home  at  once  and  get  into  proper 
ways." 

"  What  are  proper  ways  ? "  said  the  man,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  must  not  run  about  any  more,1'  Julian  answered, 
dismally.  "  I  must  wear  gloves,  and  have  my  hair  done  by 
a  maid — I  hate  being  touched  by  a  maid— and  learn  not  to 
say  what  I  think " 

"  Ah,  don't  do  that,"  said  l'Estrange,  turning  to  look  at 
her.     "  You  will  be  spoiled !  " 

"  Mamma  says  I  am  like  a  baby ;  that  I  blurt  out  every- 
thing that  comes  in  my  head " 

"That  is  right.  I  hope  you  will  always  do  it— with 
friends,  at  any  rate.  Don't  learn  to  lie  and  cheat  and  dis- 
tort the  truth,  as  women  in  society  are  so  fond  of  doing:  re- 
member, for  HeavenVsake,  that  there  are  things  dearer  than 
social  distinction  and  a  reputation  for  giving  good  dinners, 
or  having  a  well-furnished  house— dearer  even  than  dia- 
monds. I  must  tell  you,  Julian — you  let  me  call  you  Julian 
as  you  are  not  '  out,'  don't  you  ?— that  this  was  the  rock  we 
split  upon — the  woman  I  loved  and  myself.  I  had  no 
wealth  to  offer  her:  I  was  poor  and  undistinguished;  and 
she  left  me — because  she  wanted  a  line  house  and  jewels 
and  a  title:  that  was  all.  She  could  not  bear  to  be  poor, 
she  said.  Don't  be  afraid  of  poverty,  child:  it  is  worse  to 
be  base  than  poor." 

"  I  know — I  am  sure  it  is.  I  will  remember.  How  cruel 
of  her !     I  don't  think  I  could  have  done  like  that ! " 

"  I  don't  think  you  could.  You  are  untouched  by  the 
world  spirit  at  present.  But  I  see  you  are  going  into  the 
very  midst  of  it.  If  only  one  could  save  you— yet  nobody 
can  do  it  but  yourself.  Nobody  else,  Julian :  you  must  fight 
your  own  battle." 

She  looked  at  him  with  shining  eyes.  "  I  think  I  shall 
be  able  to  fight  it  now.  "When  one  knows  that  there  are  peo- 
ple in  the  world  who  understand— and  sympathise — it  makes 
such  a  difference.  It  seemed  to  me  before  as  if  perhaps  I 
wTas  only  selfish — fighting  for  my  own  hand,  as  it  were." 


"I  WILL  REMEMBER."  137 

"No,"  he  said,  almost  sternly,  "  you  will  be  fighting  for 
right  and  truth— not  for  yourself  at  all.  Let  that  conviction 
tend  to  give  you  courage.  Act  as  if  the  only  things  that 
existed  were  your  soul  and  God.  Then  you  will  be  treading 
the  narrow,  uphill  way  towards  perfection." 

She  sat  silent  and  motionless :  deeply  moved,  but  a  little 
frightened  too.  Nobody,  in  all  her  short  life,  had  ever  spoken 
to  her  in  this  way  before.  She  liked  it — she  was  thrilled  by 
it ;  and  yet  she  was  afraid. 

"  If  you  were  only  there  to  help  me ! "  she  cried  presently, 
with  a  deep  breath  of  yearning  and  regret. 

L'Estrange  sighed.  He  too  was  moved.  He  seemed 
another  man  to  Julian  from  the  gentle,  kindly,  dilettante 
artist  whom  she  at  first  had  known.  There  was  something 
finer  in  his  face  than  she  had  recognised.  She  felt  instinc- 
tively that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  nobler  nature  than 
one  often  has  the  good  fortune  to  find  in  the  journeyings 
through  this  somewhat  disappointing  and  troublesome 
world. 

"I  cannot  be  there,"  he  said,  very  kindly,  after  that  little 
pause.     "  I  have  other  duties.     But " 

He  made  a  long  pause. 

"  Do  you  ever  come  to  London — to  see  the  exhibitions  ? " 
said  Julian,  at  last,  somewhat  timidly.  "  Perhaps  some  of 
your  pictures  will  be  hung,  and  you  will  like  to  see  them  ?  " 

"  I  never  exhibit." 

"  Oh !  but  why  not  ?  They  would  get  in  at  once— they 
are  so  beautiful." 

"You  think  so?" 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes !     Have  you  never  tried  ?  " 

"Never,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "since  I  was  a  mere 
boy." 

Something  told  her  that  he  had  never  tried  since  the  day 
when  the  woman  he  loved  destroyed  his  ambition  by  reject- 
ing him  because  he  was  poor.  She  was  sure  of  it — her  in- 
stinct told  her  so.  There  was  a  sympathetic  tremor  in  her 
voice  when  she  spoke  again. 

"  Oh,  do  try  now,"  she  said.     "  Don't  think  of  the  past, 


138  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

just  look  to  the  future  and  start  fresh.  You  will  be  famous 
yet,  if  you  try — and  then  you  will  make  her  ashamed." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  he  answered  gently.  "  And  it  is  bet- 
ter that  she  should  not  hear  of  me.  I  don't  much  want  to 
come  into  her  way  again.  But — I  don't  think  my  pictures 
are  worth  exhibiting.  I  have  not  much  time  for  them,  you 
know,  except  during  my  summer  holiday." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  too  many  lessons  ? " 

"  Lessons  ? " 

"I  beg  your  pardon:  I  thought  you  gave  lessons.  I 
don't  know  why,  except  that  you  taught  me  so  beautifully," 
said  Julian,  in  confusion. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed.  "  I  am  afraid,"  he  said, 
"  I  don't  give  lessons;  I  only  receive  them." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Julian,  a  little  cross- 
ly. "  I  thought  that  you  were — an  artist.  And  artists  either 
paint  pictures  or  give  lessons,  don't  they  ?  If  you  are  not 
an  artist,  what  are  you  ? " 

He  laughed  aloud.  She  wondered,  rather  impatiently, 
why  he  looked  as  if  he  had  received  a  compliment  that 
pleased  him  very  much. 

"  I  cannot  claim  to  be  more  than  an  amateur,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  myself.  I  am  writing 
a  book — does  that  not  give  me  a  claim  to  be  called  a  literary 
man  ?     Perhaps  I  am  only  a  student." 

"  Then  you  don't  do  anything  ?  " 

"  I've  no  profession,  I  am  afraid:  not  even  a  trade.  You 
look  quite  shocked :  would  you  rather  I  said  I  kept  a  shop  ? " 

"  I'm  not  sure.  After  all  you  said  to  me — if  a  woman 
should  try  to  do  her  best,  why  should  not  a  man  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  am  not  trying  to  do  my  best  ? " 
said  l'Estrange,  glancing  up  at  her. 

Julian's  reply  was  long  in  coming.  "  I  don't  know.  I 
think  you  must  be,"  she  said  at  length.  "  Only— one  always 
wants  to  label  people— I  can't  tell  why." 

"  I  shall  give  you  no  label  for  myself,"  said  her  friend, 
lightly.  "  I  shall  leave  myself  un classed.  Perhaps,  if  I 
come  to  London— for  the  exhibitions— we  may  meet  again." 


"I  WILL   REMEMBER."  I39 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  it  is  likely  ?  Could  you  not  come  to 
see  us  ?    You  know  papa  and  Edmund  already." 

"  They  have  never  been  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  call,1' 
said  l'Estrange,  with  great  gravity,  abut  we  may  possibly 
overcome  that  difficulty.  If  I  meet  you  again,  you  will  be 
sure  to  remember  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  shall.  And  " — diffidently — "  I  will  remem- 
ber what  you  have  said." 

"Ah,  if  you  do  that!"  He  caught  himself  up,  as  if  he 
had  been  about  to  say  something  which  he  afterwards 
judged  inadmissible;  and  then  sighed  again.  "If  you  do," 
he  went  on  more  slowly,  "  I  shall  think  you  a  noble  woman 
— and  a  \erj  unusual  one." 

"  I  am  always  told,"  said  Julian,  half  laughing,  "  that  I 
am  not  like  anybody  else;  so  here  will  be  a  chance  to  de- 
velop my  unlikeness." 

"  You  are  not  like  anybody  else,"  he  rejoined,  gravely. 
"You  are  finer,  braver,  than  most  girls:  you  have  the  ca- 
pacities, mental  and  moral,  for  great  development.  I  shall 
be  interested  to  see  what  you  make  of  them.  In  a  year  or 
two,  one  will  know  better  than  one  knows  now." 

He  was  looking  away  from  her,  absently,  as  she  thought, 
towards  the  opposite  shore.  Something  curiously  imper- 
sonal in  his  tone  struck  her  as  cold,  and  gave  her  a  sense  of 
pain. 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  me  ?  "  she  asked,  plaintively.  "  I 
thought  you  liked  me— a  little  bit." 

He  looked  round  at  her  hastily.  "  Like  you,  child ! "  he 
said.  "  Of  course— that  goes  without  saying,  as  we  are  such 
friends.  I  have  been  wishing  that  I— that  I  had  a  little 
sister — like  you." 

Somehow  the  words  seemed  to  trip  as  they  fell  from  his 
tongue.  "  Sister  "  was  not  the  right  term  after  all.  But  he 
would  not  put  it  differently:  he  said  to  himself  that  it  would 
not  be  fair. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  your  sister !  "  cried  Julian.  "  I  am 
very  fond  of  Edmund;  but  he  does  not  help  me  and  teach 
me  things  as  you  do.     Had  you  ever  a  sister  ? " 


140  TIIE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Many  years  ago.    She  died  when  she  was  only  a  child." 

"  I  am  so  sorry." 

"She  was  eight  years  old,"  said  the  man  slowly.  "I 
have  never  forgotten  her.  Actually,  do  you  know,  I  dream 
about  her  still,  and  think  I  hear  her  calling  me  John,  as  she 
used  to  do." 

"  Your  name  is  John  ? " 

'*  Yes.     Nobody  calls  me  John  now." 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  said  Julian.  "You  seem  so 
lonely  in  the  world — with  nobody  belonging  to  you  at  all. 
I  am  afraid  I  hate  that  lady  you  spoke  of,  when  I  think  of 
her.  I  do  wish  I  were  your  sister,  or  belonged  to  you  in 
some  way — then  I  could  call  you  John,  and  try  to  make 
np " 

She  spoke  in  the  innocence  of  her  heart,  and  was  amazed 
at  the  flame  that  suddenly  darted  from  TEstrange's  pleasant 
eyes.  At  first  she  thought  that  he  was  angry,  and  she  fal- 
tered in  her  speech.  But  it  w7as  not  anger  that  stirred  his 
soul. 

"  Call  me  John  now,"  he  said,  in  a  quick,  low  voice. 

"John,"  she  said,  obediently;  then,  with  a  touch  of 
childish  sweetness,  u  poor  John!"  and  laid  her  hand  again 
upon  his  arm. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  minute  or  two,  still  with  the 
strange  light  in  his  eyes.  Then,  very  reluctantly,  he  with- 
drew his  eyes  from  her  face,  and  fixed  them  on  the  ground. 

"  That's  enough,"  he  said,  presently,  in  an  altered  voice. 
"  Thank  you,  my  dear  child.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  hear 
the  old  name  again.  And  now  I  must  be  going.  I  am  leav- 
ing this  part  of  the  world  in  a  day  or  twro.  So  you  see  we 
should  have  to  say  good-bye  very  soon  in  any  case." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  Julian  said,  once  more. 

But,  rather  to  her  surprise,  Mr.  l'Estrange  did  not  answer 
"  So  am  I,"  and  gave  her  what  she  considered  a  rather  stiff 
and  formal  shake  of  the  hand  when  he  said  good-bye. 


BY  THE  TARN.  141 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BY  THE  TARN. 

Edmund's  departure  was  more  regretted  by  Lisbeth  than 
by  Alys.  It  seemed  to  Lisbeth,  apart  from  her  own  attach- 
ment to  Francis  Moor,  that  Mr.  Creighton  was  a  much  more 
suitable  husband  for  Alys  than  Frank  could  ever  be.  They 
had  moved  in  the  same  circles,  they  had  many  of  the  same 
acquaintances  and  friends:  they  understood  each  other. 
Whereas,  Lisbeth  thought,  with  a  sore  heart,  there  were 
secret  recesses  of  Frank's  nature  into  which  Alys  would 
never  enter;  things  in  his  temperament  which  she  could 
never  comprehend.  Alys  was  gentle  and  clinging,  very 
loving,  and  anxious  to  do  right ;  but  Lisbeth's  keen  eyes  saw 
within  her  a  certain  power  of  self-absorption,  a  shrinking 
over-sensitiveness  to  the  outside  adverse  world,  which  might, 
if  things  did  not  go  well  with  her,  develop  into  positive  self- 
ishness. 

James  Lorimer's  training  and  example  had  produced  a 
very  natural  result.  Alys  had  learnt  from  him  to  admire 
beauty,  to  despise  and  dislike  vulgarity  and  roughness;  to 
demand,  as  her  right  in  the  world,  a  certain  amount  of  lux- 
ury and  amusement.  She  was  so  submissive,  so  gentle,  so 
dependent,  that  this  tendency  to  softness  of  fibre  was  not 
usually  suspected — or,  if  perceived,  was  not  taken  as  a  fault. 
She  looked  so  delicate — and  she  was  a  little  lame,  too,  which 
made  every  one  sorry  for  her — and  she  had  so  sweet  a  man- 
ner, as  of  a  person  to  whom  the  world  ought  to  be  kind,  that 
the  tiny  speck  of  self-indulgence  did  not  often  appear.  Lis- 
beth saw  it,  and  half  despised  herself  for  seeing  it ;  but  she 
had  faith  in  the  better  qualities  of  Alys's  nature,  and  thought 
that  they  would  conquer  the  evil  before  long.  And  but  for 
the  time  of  test  and  trial  which  was  drawing  near,  the  in- 
nate weakness — which  was  not  as  yet  so  very  great  a  failing 
— might  have  lain  concealed  for  a  lifetime. 

Edmund  went,  and  Julian  also  departed  in  tears  and 
10 


-L42  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

tribulation.  She  told  Lisbeth  that  she  should  never  know 
what  it  was  to  be  happy  again ;  and  Lisbeth  generously  in- 
vited her  to  Quest  for  the  rest  of  her  natural  life,  if  only  her 
mother  could  be  got  to  consent  to  part  with  her! 

Alys  did  not  cry,  but  she  was  very  pale;  and  when  the 
train  steamed  out  of  the  station,  and  Julian's  head  nodded  a 
last  farewell  from  the  carriage  window,  she  gazed  after  it 
with  quivering  lips  and  straining  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not 
bear  to  see  it  go. 

Edmund's  last  words  had  unnerved  her. 

"  You  have  chosen  your  lot,  then  ? "  he  said,  with  a  bitter 

smile. 

She  shrank  back  a  little,  trembling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Kemember,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  am  always  at  your 
service.  If  you  think  better  of  it,  you  have  only  to  send  me 
a  line— a  word,  and  I  will  come  and  take  you  away.  For 
your  own  sake,  Alys,  remember  this." 

"  You  do  not  care  whether  I  am  false  or  true,"  she  said, 
trying  to  turn  the  assault. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  said,  almost  violently,  "  compared  with 
the  question  of  your  life  or  death.  You  may  be  as  false  to 
Francis  Moor  as  you  please,  and  I  at  least  will  never  think 
the  worse  of  you." 

"  I  shall  not  be  false  to  him." 

"  Very  well;  I  have  told  you  what  your  fate  will  be." 

Then  they  shook  hands  coldly,  and  Edmund  turned 
away.  The  conversation  had  taken  place  upon  the  plat- 
form, and  the  train  was  now  advancing.  He  did  not  speak 
to  Alys  again;  but  he  was  remorselessly  glad  to  see  the 
effect  his  words  had  had.  He  carried  away  a  picture  of  the 
pale  face  and  dilated  eyes,  which  did  not  grieve  him  in  the 
least.  Like  most  men,  he  thought  that  everything  was  fair 
in  love. 

Lisbeth,  who  had  also  come  to  the  station,  saw  that  he 
had  said  something  which  agitated  Alys,  but  she  had  no 
conception  of  the  way  in  which  he  was  working  on  her 
feelings.  She  did  not  know,  as  they  drove  back  to  Quest, 
that  the  girl  was  surveying  the  wild  loveliness  of  hill  and 


BY  THE  TARN.  143 

stream  with  actual  repugnance;  that  the  cool  breeze  from 
the  heights  made  her  shiver;  that  the  cold  grey  walls  of 
the  old  house  looked  to  her  like  those  of  a  prison.  Oh,  for 
the  warm,  close,  comfortable  London  houses,  the  safe,  well- 
known,  if  dirty,  streets,  the  life  of  a  town,  where  everything 
that  concerned  herself  was  well-ordered  and  luxurious  and 
conventional!  Alys  repented  in  her  heart  that  she  had  ever 
come  to  Quest. 

But  the  mood  of  foreboding  and  of  discontent  was  evan- 
escent. She  had  a  note  from  Frank — who  was  jubilant  at 
Edmund  Creigh ton's  departure— as  soon  as  she  reached 
home ;  and  her  spirits  once  more  revived.  It  was  delightful 
to  be  loved.  She  was  to  see  Frank  on  the  morrow.  She 
could  defy  the  prospect  of  loneliness,  of  bitter  weather,  even 
of  illness,  when  he  was  at  her  side.  Her  eyes  brightened, 
and  the  rose-colour  came  back  to  her  delicate  cheeks. 

Later  in  the  day,  Lisbeth,  finding  her  on  the  door-step 
with  a  book  upon  her  lap,  came  and  took  a  seat  beside  her, 
putting  her  arm  gently  round  the  girl's  waist.  Alys  nestled 
to  her  with  a  pretty  movement  like  that  of  a  weary  bird. 

"  Dear  Lisbeth,"  she  said,  caressingly ;  and  that  was  all. 

"  You  must  be  very  lonely,  dear,*'  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  gentle 
voice. 

"Oh,  don't  say  it,  Lisbeth.  I  had  forgotten  about  it. 
Now  I  shall  feel  it  again !  " 

"  We  must  get  Julian  back  again  one  of  these  days,"  said 
Lisbeth,  who  could  not  quite  understand  how  any  one  could 
banish  at  will  a  real  and  true  feeling. 

"  Yes;  but  by  herself— not  with  Edmund." 

"  You  don't  iike  Edmund  ?  " 

"  I  like  him  very  well  as  a  friend :  not  as  anything 
else." 

"  There  is  some  one  you  like — as— more  than  a  friend,  is 
there  not  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Don't  ask  me,  Lisbeth." 

"  You  had  a  note  from  him  when  we  came  in  ?  " 

The  rosy  colour  that  overspread  Alys's  face  betrayed 
her.     But  she  did  not  speak :  she  only  raised  her  head  from 


144  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Lisbeth's  shoulder,  and  moved  an  inch  away.  The  move- 
ment was,  however,  eloquent,  and  Lisbeth  sighed  as  she 
removed  her  arm. 

"  Alys,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  say  something  unpleas- 
ant; but  I  must  say  it.     I  am  older  than  you " 

"  If  you  are  thinking  that  you  can  scold  me  because  you 
are  older  than  I,"  said  Alys,  with  a  touch  of  sharpness  in  her 
voice,  "  you  are  quite  mistaken.  Your  age  does  not  give  you 
that  right." 

"  But  T  never  thought  of  scolding.  I  only  wanted  to  say, 
dear,  that  I  have  known  the  Moors  almost  all  my  life.  I 
love  Lady  Adela,  and  I  feel  that  I  owe  a  duty  to  her.  I  am 
afraid  she  does  not  know  what  is  going  on,  and  that  she 
would  not  like  it  if  she  did." 

Alys  averted  her  face.  "  You  cannot  expect  me  to  an- 
swer," she  said,  almost  resentfully. 

"  No,  darling.  Don't  answer.  It  would  be  of  no  use. 
But  it  is  just  this.  If  you  can  get  Frank — Mr.  Moor — to 
speak  to  her  at  once,  I  shall  be  satisfied.  But,  if  he  does  not 
speak,  either  he  comes  to  Quest  no  more,  or  I  go  to  Lady 
Adela  myself." 

"Lisbeth!" 

"  I  must  say  it,  dear.  Lady  Adela  trusts  me — I  know  she 
does.  And  I  will  not  have  Francis  Moor  within  my  doors 
at  Quest,  making  love  to  my  sister  under  my  very  eyes,  with- 
out her  knowledge  and  approval." 

Lisbeth's  voice  was  low  and  clear,  but  very  stern.  She 
spoke  with  an  intensity  of  resolution  which  startled  Alys 
into  fear  and  entreaty. 

"Oh,  Lisbeth,  dear,  do  leave  things  alone.  It  is  all 
right— indeed,  it  is.  There  is  not  the  slightest  need  for  you 
to  worry." 

"I  am  not  worrying,"  said  Lisbeth,  calmly.  "Only  I 
wish  Lady  Adela  to  know  the  true  state  of  the  case." 

Alys  could  be  petulant  when  she  was  frightened  and  dis- 
tressed. She  burst  out  now  with  a  word  of  which  she  did 
not  know  the  sting. 

"  You  think  that  because  Lady  Adela  looks  down  on  you, 


BY   THE  TARN.  145 

she  will  look  down  on  me  too.  We  may  be  half -sisters,  but 
we  are  very  different." 

Lisbeth  drew  back,  and  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  as  if 
she  were  wounded  there.  It  was  a  simple,  natural  gesture, 
such  as  might  have  roused  an  older  woman's  pity ;  but  to 
Alys,  in  her  inexperienced  girlishness,  which  is  almost 
always  hard,  it  seemed  theatrical  and  absurd.  Scarcely 
knowing  that  she  was  cruel,  she  laughed  aloud,  and,  rising 
from  her  seat,  fled  up  to  her  own  room,  whence  she  did  not 
reappear  for  an  hour  or  two. 

Lisbeth  remained  where  she  was  for  some  minutes,  partly 
because  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  which  she  did  not  wish 
to  let  fall.  She  was  obliged  at  last  to  raise  her  head  to  wipe 
them  away,  and  then  was  sorry  that  she  had  done  so,  for  she 
caught  sight  of  Zadock  looking  at  her  from  over  the  fence 
with  the  scowl  upon  his  face  which  tears  from  her  always 
produced.  He  entered  the  garden,  and  advanced  slowly  to- 
wards her,  scowling  all  the  time. 

"Missy  make  Lisbeth  cry.  Squoire  made  Lisbeth  cry," 
he  said,  in  a  sinister  tone. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lisbeth,  cheerfully.  "  Lisbeth's  not  cry- 
ing at  all— what  nonsense  !     Let  us  go  and  feed  the  fowls." 

Zadock's  brow  cleared :  this  was  his  favourite  occupation, 
engaged  in  which  he  seemed  to  forget  his  wrath.  Lisbeth 
talked  to  him,  and  did  her  work  in  her  usual  energetic  way; 
but  she  went  about,  feeling  as  though  she  had  received  a 
deadly  wound.  For  it  seemed  to  her  that  Frank  must  have 
spoken  to  Alys  of  his  former  fancy  for  her;  and  perhaps 
they  had  guessed  the  fact  of  her  love  for  him.  It  was  in- 
tolerable to  feel  that  she  had  been  discussed. 

She  was  quite  wrong  in  this  impression.  Frank  had 
never  once  hinted  to  Alys  that  he  had  wanted  Lisbeth  to 
marry  him;  and  Alys  had  spoken  simply  from  the  social 
point  of  view.  She  considered  herself  quite  tbe  equal  to 
any  Lady  Adela:  and  she  knew  that  Lisbeth  did  not  asso- 
ciate with  people  of  Lady  Adela's  standing  in  an  ordinary 
way.  She  wanted  to  give  a  pin-prick,  but  she  had  given  a 
wound. 


146  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

She  was  ashamed,  however,  even  of  the  pin-prick ;  and 
when  she  came  out  of  the  room,  she  went  up  to  Lisbeth  to 
he  kissed,  and  to  murmur  a  contrite  word.  But  for  once 
Lisbeth  drew  back.  "  It  does  not  matter,'1  she  said,  avoiding 
the  salute.  "  You  will  speak  to  Mr.  Moor  about  what  I  have 
said,  if  he  comes  here  to-morrow,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  You  are  very  unkind,  Lisbeth,"  was  Alys's  reply.  And 
they  spoke  no  more  to  each  other  that  day.  But  Alys  could 
not  help  observing,  and  being  angered  by  the  fact,  that  Lis- 
beth waited  on  her,  surrounded  her  with  observances,  min- 
istered to  her  with  even  more  than  her  usual  care  and  ten- 
derness. The  girl's  narrower  nature  did  not  respond  to  the 
woman's  generosity.  She  thought  that  Lisbeth  was  playing 
a  part— trying  to  propitiate  her — seeking  not  to  give  offence. 
And  she  lamented  to  herself  that  she  had  been  hitherto  so 
much  mistaken  in  her  sister. 

The  morning  brought  a  cheering  glow  of  bright  au- 
tumnal sunshine.  Alys  watched  for  Frank  at  the  garden 
gate.  She  did  not  want  him  to  come  in.  But  he  did  not 
arrive  until  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  for  he 
had  been  detained  by  business,  he  said,  and  could  not  get 
away  before.  He  was  more  inclined  to  go  into  the  house 
and"rest  than  take  another  walk ;  but  Alys  persuaded  him 
that  they  would  be  happier  up  by  the  tarn— "  because  Lisbeth 
had  turned  so  disagreeable." 

"I  never  knew  Lisbeth  disagreeable  yet,"  said  Frank, 
quickly. 

"I  dare  say  she  thinks  she  is  doing  right,"  returned  Alys, 
with  the  sigh  of  a  martyr;  "but  really  it  is  very  disagreea- 
ble for  us.  Come  up  the  hill,  dear,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

She  put  her  hand  within  his  arm,  as  they  moved  away. 
What  was  the  use  of  any  disguise,  she  thought,  when  Lis- 
beth had  spoken  of  telling  Lady  Adela  ?  All  the  world 
might  as  well  know  now  that  she  and  Francis  were  be- 
trothed. 

They  did  not  see  Lisbeth  herself,  who  came  out  of  the 
courtyard  to  watch  them  going  up  the  hill.     Her  eyes  grew 


BY  THE  TARN.  147 

troubled  as  she  looked,  but  her  mouth  was  firm.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  what  she  was  going  to  do,  and  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  said.  She  did  not  watch  long,  or  make 
moan  over  her  own  wasted  love  and  buried  hopes:  she  drew 
her  hand  once  across  her  eyes  and  went  back  to  her  work. 
They  did  not  see  her,  but  Zadock  saw. 

It  would  have  been  well  if  Lisbeth  had  noticed  Zadock's 
next  movements.  He  went  into  the  stable,  and  rummaged 
about  for  a  few  moments  until  he  found  the  knife  which  he 
had  been  cleaning  on  the  day  when  it  attracted  Edmund 
Creighton's  attention :  this  he  secreted  inside  his  coat,  and 
then  set  out,  slowly  and  doggedly,  to  follow  the  pair  whom 
he  had  learnt  to  hate.  There  was  danger  in  his  look :  dan- 
ger in  the  deliberate  malice  of  his  eye  and  the  scowl  upon 
his  brow.  He  was  no  longer  the  harmless  fool  who  had 
been  so  long  suffered  to  go  at  large :  the  crisis  of  his  malady 
had  come  upon  him,  and  he  was  little  better  than  a  raving 
lunatic,  for  whose  uncontrolled  actions  no  one  could  be  re- 
sponsible. Danger,  indeed,  for  those  against  whom  he  had 
conceived  a  grudge,  and  whom  he  vaguely  wished  to  pun- 
ish for  the  sorrow  that  they  had  brought  to  his  beloved 
Lisbeth. 

The  lovers  went  slowly  up  the  hill.  Their  arms  were 
interlaced;  their  heads  near  together,  for  they  were  talk- 
ing busily.  They  never  dreamed  that  they  were  watched, 
tracked,  followed,  by  an  enemy  as  cruel  and  as  implacable 
as  any  Red  Indian  of  the  West,  as  any  fanatic  of  the  gor- 
geous East.  It  never  crossed  their  minds  that  in  England, 
in  broad  daylight,  in  full  view  of  half-a-dozen  dwellings, 
they  were  in  clanger  of  their  lives. 

They  went  to  the  tarn,  and  sat  under  a  tree  for  some  lit- 
tle while,  still  talking.  The  madman  crept  closer  and  closer. 
He  could  hear,  although  he  could  not  understand,  what  they 
said.  He  saw  Frank  kiss  the  girl  at  last ;  and  to  his  brutal- 
ised  intelligence  it  appeared  that  they  were  again  injuring 
Lisbeth  by  the  kisses  that  made  her  cry. 

At  last  they  rose  and  strolled  to  the  head  of  the  tarn, 
where  the  banks  were  steep  and  precipitous,  and  they  could 


^48  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

look  down  into  the  deep  tarn  water,  thirty  feet  below.  They 
were  still  talking  eagerly. 

"  Then  you  will  tell  her  yourself,  Frank  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  darling.  As  if  I  would  leave  it  for  Lis- 
beth  to  do ! " 

"  It  is  very  meddlesome  of  Lisbeth." 

"  I  can't  think  what  she  means  by  it,"  said  Frank,  who 
was  vexed ;  "  but,  at  any  rate,  she  has  roused  me  to  a  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  you,  my  darling.  I  will  speak  to  my 
mother  to-night,  when  I  get  home." 

"  Dear  Frank !  I  am  so  glad.     But  will  she  like  me  ? " 

"  My  sweet  love!  She  will  love  you,  as  I  do— as  I  shall 
— always  and  for  ever." 

Zadock  was  creeping  towards  them  in  the  grass.  His 
movements  were  so  stealthy  that  they  had  not  distinguished 
them.     But  he  was  drawing  very  near. 

"What  a  lovely  cluster  of  rowan-berries!"  said  Alys. 
"Do  get  them  for  me,  Frank." 

The  tree  grew  half  a  dozen  yards  away,  and  its  branches 
drooped  over  the  steep  bank,  but  it  was  easy  enough  to  get 
the  berries  to  which  Alys  had  pointed  with  her  parasol. 
Frank  moved  forward,  and  the  girl  remained  alone. 

Now  was  the  moment !  Now  the  madman  saw  his  chance. 
He  could  push  her  over,  or  he  could  even  drive  his  knife 
into  her  heart.  He  would  do  it,  and  Lisbeth  would  be 
avenged. 

Losing  all  desire  of  concealment,  he  sprang  to  his  full 
height,  uttered  a  strange,  unearthly  cry,  and  sprang  for- 
ward. Fortunately  for  Alys,  he  miscalculated  the  distance, 
and  she  was  able  to  start  aside.  Her  scream,  as  well  as 
Zadock's  cry,  brought  Frank  to  the  rescue. 

"  Run,  Alys,  ran !  He's  mad,"  Frank  shouted,  as  he  flung 
himself  between  Zadock  and  the  girl. 

And  Alys  ran. 

She  ran  wildly,  with  her  hands  over  her  ears,  as  if  to 
shut  out  all  hearing  of  the  struggle.  For  that  a  struggle  of 
some  kind  was  taking  place  she  knew  by  instinct,  more  than 
by  sight  or  sound.  At  last  her  strength  failed  her,  and  she  fell. 


SEEKING  AND  FINDING.  149 

Prone  on  the  earth,  she  ventured  at  last  to  look  back. 
Then  she  shrieked  aloud.  On  the  very  edge  of  the  tarn,  as 
it  seemed  to  her,  from  her  point  of  view,  two  men  were 
wrestling  for  life  and  death.  One  was  strong  and  brawny: 
the  other  was  shorter  and  of  slighter  build.  Oh,  who  would 
win  ?  Who  would  be  victor  in  that  terrible  struggle  for 
life  and  death  ?  Was  it  even  possible  that  Francis  Moor 
could  subdue  the  strength  of  a  great  muscular  giant  like 
Zadock  Verrall  ? — a  strength  rendered  even  more  terrible  by 
the  fit  of  madness  that  had  come  upon  him. 

Alys  cowered  and  trembled,  but  watched  in  agony.  Sud- 
denly a  great  cry  rent  the  heavens,  and  the  cry  was  followed 
by  a  sound  which,  even  at  that  distance,  reached  her  ears; 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  precipitated  into  the  waters  of 
the  tarn.  Whose  was  it  ?  Who  had  fallen,  and  who  re- 
mained behind  ?  In  a  frenzy  of  fear,  Alys  hid  her  face,  and 
waited— expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the  madman's 
steps,  expecting  every  moment  to  find  herself  in  his  mur- 
derous grasp.  But  a  deadly  silence  succeeded  to  that  cry, 
that  plunge  into  the  tarn.  Five — ten  minutes  elapsed,  and 
nothing  more  was  heard.  Finally,  she  ventured  to  with- 
draw her  fingers  from  her  face,  and  to  look  up. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  Zadock  Verrall  and 
Francis  Moor  had  alike  disappeared. 

Then  the  sky  grew  black  to  Alys's  eyes,  and  strange 
noises  sounded  in  her  ears,  and  for  a  time  the  world  became 
to  her  a  perfect  blank. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SEEKING  AND  FINDING. 

As  the  day  waned  and  the  light  faded,  Lisbeth  became 
uneasy.  She  had  seen  Alys  go  out  with  Frank,  and  expected 
them  to  return  before  teatime.  But  when  six,  seven,  and 
eight  o'clock  had  struck,  when  the  autumnal  day  was  clos- 


150  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ing  in,  and  still  Alys  did  not  appear,  Lisbeth  began  to  tor- 
ment herself  with  useless  conjectures  as  to  what  had  hap- 
pened. Was  it  possible  that  she  and  Frank,  taking  alarm 
at  her  threat  of  revealing  all  to  Lady  Adela,  had  gone  off 
together  and  did  not  mean  to  come  back  ? 

This  was  her  first  thought.  Then  she  reproached  her- 
self for  what  seemed  like  a  base  suspicion.  Frank  was  an 
honourable  man:  Alys  was  a  modest  and  sensitive  girl: 
neither  of  them  would  do  a  thing  which  might  be  so  fatally 
misunderstood,  and  which  would  expose  their  friends  to 
such  anxiety  on  their  behalf. 

This  point  disposed  of,  she  wondered  whether  some  un- 
foreseen incident  had  delayed  them,  and,  when  she  had  ex- 
hausted all  conjectures  on  that  head,  she  began  to  think  of 
possible  accidents.  Had  Alys  sprained  her  foot,  or  turned 
faint,  and  been  carried  to  the  nearest  cottage  ?  Surely 
Frank  himself  could  not  have  come  to  harm  ?  Could  they 
have  lost  their  way— a  not  impossible  occurrence — on  the 
bleak  hillside  ? 

Lisbeth  went  out  and  looked  at  the  darkening  sky.  It 
was  perfectly  clear :  there  had  been  no  hint  of  misleading 
fog  or  bewildering  storm  for  many  a  day.  The  weather 
was  perfect  for  the  time  of  year.  Then  she  strained  her 
eyes  over  the  moorland  and  the  dim  white  road ;  but  noth- 
ing could  be  seen  of  her  sister  and  her  sister's  lover.  She 
would  find  Zadock,  she  thought,  and  ask  if  he  had  seen 
them:  he  had  a  knack  of  knowing  where  Alys  was,  and 
Lisbeth  could  always  extract  information  from  him  which 
nobody  else  could  obtain. 

She  looked  for  him  in  the  kitchen  and  outhouses,  re- 
membering with  surprise,  but  scarcely  with  alarm,  that  she 
had  not  seen  him  about  for  several  hours.  His  occasional 
disappearances  never  disturbed  her.  He  seemed  to  like  to 
wander  away  from  Quest  sometimes :  to  wander  far  into  the 
lonely  hills ;  and  he  was  always  better  in  health  and  hap- 
pier in  disposition  when  he  had  made  one  of  these  excur- 
sions. She  had  long  ceased  to  be  anxious  respecting  his 
safety:  Zadock  was  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself. 


SEEKING  AND   FINDING.  151 

"  Where  is  Zadock  ? "  she  asked  of  a  grinning  stable-boy 
whom  she  came  across. 

The  boy  pointed  up  the  hill. 

"Yon  gait,"  he  said,  briefly.  "After  squoire  and  mis- 
sy." Everybody  on  the  farm  knew  Alys  by  the  name  of 
"  missy." 

Lisbeth  felt  a  pang  of  fear— why,  she  could  scarcely  tell. 

"Was  Zadock  pleased  to  go?"  she  asked,  seeking  for 
some  indication  of  the  mood  in  which  he  had  set  out. 

"Nay;  he  was  savage  as  a  bear  wi'  a  sair  heid,"  said 
the  lad. 

Lisbeth  was  not  offended  by  the  words,  for  the  boy  was 
rather  a  favourite  of  hers,  in  spite  of  a  tongue  that  was 
somewhat  overbold ;  he  was  one  of  the  few  people  at  Quest 
who  seemed  to  know— instinctively  as  it  were— how  to  man- 
age Zadock  in  his  surly  moods.  She  paused  for  a  few  min- 
utes' reflection ;  then  said,  abruptly— 

"  Get  the  big  lantern,  and  come  with  me." 

She  had  a  fancy  that  Alys  might  be  lingering  at  one  of 
the  cottages  on  the  way  to  the  tarn.  It  would  not  take  her 
long  to  go  and  see. 

The  boy  stared  and  grunted:  he  adored  his  mistress  in  a 
loutish  kind  of  way,  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  understand 
her.  He  waited  while  she  fetched  a  shawl  from  the  house, 
and  threw  on  her  garden  hood ;  then  took  up  the  lantern 
that  he  had  lighted,  and  prepared  to  start.  Lisbeth  told 
him  to  take  the  path  to  the  tarn,  and  to  stop  at  every  cot- 
tage on  the  way.  Surely,  she  thought,  she  should  find  Alys 
at  one  of  them. 

But  her  search  was  vain.  At  no  house  had  Alys  called 
or  stopped  to  rest.  One  or  two  of  the  women  said  that  they 
had  seen  her  pass  by  with  "  the  young  squire  of  Moor  End  " 
at  an  earlier  hour ;  but  none  of  them  could  tell  in  what  di- 
rection they  had  gone.  And  at  last  Lisbeth,  thoroughly 
alarmed,  sent  the  boy  Eobin  back  to  Quest  for  other  helpers; 
and  the  men  turned  out  of  their  cottages  to  shout  and 
search  with  lanterns  for  the  missing  pair. 

Not  a  few  of  the  searchers  had  a  significant  word  and 


152  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

glance  aside  which  were  not  suffered  to  come  to  Lisbeth's 
knowledge.  They  had  all  noticed  Francis  Moor's  devotion 
to  Miss  Lorimer:  several  had  made  a  rude  jest  now  and 
then  on  the  transfer  of  Frank's  affection  from  the  elder  to 
the  younger  sister.  But  they  were  grave  and  respectful 
enough  when  Lisbeth  looked  and  spoke.  They  did  not  care 
to  offend  the  imperious  mistress  of  Quest. 

It  was  dark  now;  quite  dark,  for  there  was  no  moon. 
The  outline  of  the  sweeping  moor  and  barren  hill  could  but 
dimly  be  seen :  the  black  waters  of  the  tarn  were  well  nigh 
invisible.  The  lanterns  flashed  long  rays  of  light  over  the 
stunted  grass  and  furze  bushes,  but  the  rays  revealed  noth- 
ing. The  men  shouted  loudly  from  time  to  time ;  but  there 
was  no  answer  save  the  faint  rustling  of  the  wind  amongst 
the  underwood. 

At  last  the  men  gathered  into  a  group,  and  consulted 
together  in  low  tones.  Lisbeth,  who  was  a  little  ahead, 
glanced  back  and  saw  them,  with  heads  close  together — 
strange  black  figures  they  looked,  with  gleaming  lanterns  at 
their  side.     She  turned  and  came  back  to  them. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Have  you  found  anything  ?  Do  you  see 
anything  ? "  she  said. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Then  Job  Tyars,  the 
oldest  man  in  her  service,  a  man  with  white  hair  and  bowed 
shoulders,  to  whom  every  one  turned  for  help  in  the  hour 
of  need,  spoke  slowly  and  reluctantly. 

"  We  think  there  be  nowt  to  see,  mistress." 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Job  Tyars  ? "  said  Lis- 
beth, with  sudden  fierceness. 

"We  think  she  be  goan  for  good  wi'  the  squoire,  mistress: 
that's  what  we  thinks." 

"  You  are  idiots  and  fools,  then !  "  said  Lisbeth,  her  anger 
leaping  passionately  forth.  "How  dare  you  say  a  thing 
like  that  to  me  of  my  own  sister?  She  has  not  come  back 
through  some  accident,  I  tell  you;  she  may  be  perish- 
ing with  cold  on  the  hillside  for  all  I  know.  Look  till  you 
find  her!  and  any  man  who  speaks  of  her  having  gone 
away — with  any  one,  may  take  his  wages  to-morrow  morn- 


SEEKING   AND   FINDING.  153 

ing  and  be  off,  for  I'll  have  none  of  him ;  and  that  I'd  say- 
even  if  it  were  Job  Tyars  himself." 

"Now  nay,  mistress,  now  nay,"  said  Job  gently. 
"  There's  no  need  to  anger  thyself  over  owt  that  a  young 
lass  may  do.  But  the  men  don't  see  the  use  of  going 
further,  and  losing  their  neet's  rest.  Wait  till  the  morrow, 
mistress,  then  we  shall  look  again." 

The  men,  it  must  be  said,  were  firmly  convinced  that 
Alys  had  eloped  with  Mr.  Moor.  Had  they  really  believed 
that  she  was  in  any  danger,  there  would  not  have  been  a 
word  said  about  their  night's  rest :  they  would  have  searched 
for  her  high  and  low.  But  at  present  they  thought  them- 
selves engaged  in  a  foolish  search  for  a  young  woman  who 
was  probably  safe  and  sound  in  a  comfortable  hotel,  or  half 
way  to  London  by  the  night  express. 

The  light  of  the  lantern  flashed  on  Lisbeth's  face,  and 
showed  its  expression  of  bitter  resentment  and  indignation. 

uGo  to  your  beds,  then,"  she  said,  contemptuously. 
"  Give  me  a  lantern.  I'll  look  till  I  find  her,  if  I  go  by 
myself." 

"  A'll  goo  wi'  thee,  mistress,"  said  old  Job. 

11  Me,  too,"  grunted  Eobin.  The  youngster  and  the  an- 
cient were  for  once  in  accord — a  thing  that  did  not  often 
happen. 

The  other  men  looked  at  each  other  shamefacedly.  Then, 
instead  of  turning  back,  they  picked  up  their  lanterns  and  set 
themselves  again  to  the  search.  Lisbeth  strode  on  in  front, 
disdainful  of  their  help.  She  felt,  in  her  rage  of  helpless 
fear,  as  if  she  could  search  the  whole  range  of  desolate  hills 
alone. 

Suddenly  the  boy  Robin,  who  had  kept  needfully  to  her 
side,  uttered  a  cry  and  darted  ahead.  She  followed  eagerly, 
straining  her  muscles  to  get  up  to  him.  What  had  he  seen? 
Something  white :  something  which  made  a  little  glimmer 
of  something  in  the  darkness:  a  ghostly  heap  of  some  kind 
among  the  gorse  and  heather.  Lisbeth  sprang  forward  with 
a  stifled  moan.  It  was  Alys— Alys  herself,  lying  half 
insensible  on  the  bare  ground. 


154  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

In  a  moment  or  two  they  had  surrounded  her ;  Lisbeth 
poured  some  brandy  and  water  into  her  mouth,  and  bathed 
her  forehead.  At  first  she  fancied  that  the  girl  was  dead. 
But  presently  Alys  opened  her  eyes,  and  sighed. 

"  Are  you  hurt,  my  darling  ? ''  Lisbeth  said,  pillowing  the 
golden  head  upon  her  breast. 

For  a  minute  or  two  no  look  of  intelligence  came  into 
the  large  blue  eyes.  Then  a  strange  horror  took  the  place 
of  vacancy,  and  she  raised  herself  a  little  to  gaze  around  her 
with  a  startled  air. 

"  Is  he  there  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Who,  dear  ?    Frank  ? " 

"No— no.     Zadock!" 

"No,  dearest,  he  is  not  here,"  said  Lisbeth,  suspecting 
only  the  childish  fear  of  Zadock  which  Alys  had  always 
shown.     "  Don't  be  afraid  of  Zadock.'' 

"  But  I  am  afraid.  He  will  come  back.  He  will  kill  us 
— he  will  kill  me — as  he  killed — Frank.  Oh!  "—and  with  a 
wild  cry  she  sank  back  senseless  once  again. 

"  She's  delirious  with  exhaustion,"  said  Lisbeth,  suddenly 
becoming  very  pale  and  calm.  "  She  does  not  know  what 
she  is  saying.  We  must  carry  her  to  the  nearest  cottage — it 
is  yours,  Job,  is  it  not  ? " 

She  carefully  gave  directions  as  to  what  was  to  be  done, 
and  how  she  was  to  be  carried:  but  it  was  with  an  icy  com- 
posure which  did  not  seem  quite  natural.  The  men  looked 
at  one  another.  They  attached  more  importance  to  Alys's 
words  than  Lisbeth  apparently  did ;  for  they  knew  some- 
thing of  Zadock's  occasional  fits  of  rage,  and  murmured 
among  themselves  that  there  were  times  when  nothing 
could  restrain  him,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  "  shut  up."  But 
Lisbeth  did  not  know  that  these  whispers  were  current,  and 
had  never  been  brought  to  acknowledge  that  Zadock's  afflic- 
tion was  of  a  dangerous  character. 

Her  fears,  now  that  Alys  was  found,  centred  themselves 
on  Frank.  Where  was  he  ?  Where  had  he  left  Alys,  and 
what  had  happened  to  them  both  ?  Possibly  some  terrible 
accident  had  occurred,   and   Alys   had  witnessed  it — that 


SEEKING  AND  FINDING.  155 

would  account  for  the  shock  that  her  nerves  seemed  to  have 
received.  But  she  could  only  wait,  with  as  much  patience 
as  was  at  her  command,  until  her  sister  could  recover  con- 
sciousness sufficiently  to  explain  matters. 

She  had  sent  a  man  for  the  Crosthwaite  doctor,  and  now 
waited  at  Alys's  bedside;  for  Job  Tyars'  comely  old  wife 
had  put  her  cottage  and  all  that  it  contained  at  the  disposal 
of  uthe  mistress."  The  homely  little  bedroom  was  lighted 
only  by  one  little  tallow  candle,  by  which  Lisbeth  could 
hardly  see  her  sister's  face ;  but  she  kept  her  hand  on  the 
slim  wrist,  and  noted  the  fluttering  of  a  scarcely  perceptible 
pulse.  Alys  lay  quiet  and  motionless;  her  eyes  closed,  her 
lips  half  open.  In  the  faint  light  Lisbeth  could  almost  have 
imagined  that  she  was  dead. 

Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  Lisbeth  bent 
down,  imagining  that  she  would  be  recognized.  If  Alys 
knew  her  she  showed  no  signs  of  recognition.  She  looked 
straight  before  her,  and  asked,  as  if  of  some  person  un- 
known— 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

There  was  a  shuddering  horror  in  her  tone. 

"  Who,  my  darling  ?  " 

"Frank." 

"  No,  dear,  of  course  not.     Why  should  he  be  ?  " 

Then  Alys  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  sister  for  the  first 
time,  and  answered  coherently— 

"  Zadock  has  killed  him,"  she  said. 

Then  Lisbeth  started  a  little,  and  turned  pale.  "You 
are  mistaken,  dearest,"  she  said.  "Do  not  think  of  such 
things." 

"  They  are  both  dead,"  said  Alys  calmly.  "  Better  for 
them  both  to  be  dead,  don't  you  think  ?  I  could  not  love  a 
— a— murderer. " 

She  turned  deadly  white,  and  began  to  shiver  violently. 
Lisbeth  had  to  set  to  work  to  subdue  the  shivering  fits,  but 
they  were  succeeded  by  fever,  and  in  a  very  short  time  the 
girl  was  delirious,  and  evidently  in  a  very  serious  state. 

It  was  not  until  the  dawn  was  creeping  into  the  little 


15a  THE  MISTRESS  OF   QUEST. 

room  that  Lisbeth  found  time  to  come  out  into  the  little 
kitchen,  where  two  or  three  men  still  lingered,  talking 
softly  over  the  fire.  Mrs.  Tyars  was  with  the  sick  girl ;  and 
Job,  who  had  been  snatching  an  uneasy  slumber  on  the 
wooden  settle,  rose  to  his  feet  and  touched  his  white  fore- 
lock respectfully  as  Lisbeth  stood  among  them.  Was  it  the 
dawn  alone  that  made  her  look  so  pale  ? 

"  Job,"  she  said,  "  and  you  others,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favour." 

They  waited  while  she  paused  a  little— not  out  of  unwill- 
ingness, but  from  an  awkward  kind  of  sympathy  that  did 
not  know  how  to  express  itself. 

"  I  want  you,"  she  said  presently,  u  now  that  it  is  light, 
to  go  up  to  the  tarn,  to  go  all  round  it,  above  and  below. 
Then  come  back  and  tell  me  if  you  see  anything— any- 
thing  " 

Her  voice  broke. 

"  If  any  one's  hurt,  missus  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  eagerly  catching  at  his  words.  "  If 
any  one's  hurt.  Or  if  it  looks  as  if  there  had  been  a  strug- 
gle. If  the  branches  are  broken— or  there  are  signs  of  tram- 
pling feet.     Tell  me  if  you  see— anything— strange." 

The  men  looked  at  her  with  pity.  Tbey  understood  her 
fears,  rough  men  as  they  were,  almost  better  than  she  did 

herself. 

"  Missy  talks  o'  the  tarn,  I  reckon,"  said  Job,  tenderly. 

"Yes,  she  does— she  does,"  said  Lisbeth,  clasping  her 
hands  together.  "It's  horrible  to  hear— something  must 
have  happened,  and  she  has  seen  it.  You  must  find  out  for 
me  what  it  is.  Go  now— Mary  Tyars  is  with  her;  and  I  will 
wait  here  till  you  come  back." 

She  seated^  herself  on  a  low  seat  before  the  fire,  and 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  knees.  The  men  slunk  out 
with  awe-stricken  faces.  They  had  never  seen  their  mis- 
tress like  this  before,  with  the  new  tremor  in  her  voice  and 
the  strange  fear  in  her  face.  They  glanced  at  her  once  as 
they  left  the  room,  and  Job  Tyars  solemnly  shook  his  head. 

Lisbeth  heard  their  steps  die  away  into  the  distance,  and 


SEEKING  AND  FINDING.  157 

sat,  with  her  hands  before  her,  gazing  into  the  red  embers  of 
the  fire.  It  was  not  like  her  to  be  so  supine,  so  motionless. 
But  the  events  of  the  night  had  tried  even  her  strong  nerves. 
And  Alys,  in  her  delirium,  had  said  strange  things— had 
spoken  of  a  deadly  struggle,  of  a  fight  for  life  and  death,  of 
a  horrible  dread  of  a  madman's  pursuit. 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Was  she  simply  raving,  or  was 
there  any  foundation  for  what  she  had  said  ? 

She  waited  for  what  seemed  to  her  like  an  eternity  of 
time.  It  was  not  so  long— after  all;  only  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  or  thereabouts.  But  such  minutes  as  these  should 
count  as  months  or  years. 

"  Frank  is  dead,"  she  said  to  herself  continuously,  as  if 
trying  to  accustom  herself  to  the  idea.  "Frank  is  dead. 
Alys  saw  him  die.  No  wonder  she  is  ill.  The  man  she 
loved  is  dead.  The  man  I  loved,"  .  .  .  and  then  she  got  no 
further;  but  went  on  with  the  dull  repetition  of  the  phrase, 
which  for  the  moment  contained  the  whole  of  life  and  death 
to  her:  "  Frank  Moor  is  dead." 

Her  nerves  were  wound  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  when 
Job's  hand  was  laid  at  last  upon  the  latch,  she  felt  as  if  she 
must  scream  aloud  in  order  to  relieve  their  tension.  But  she 
only  compressed  her  lips  closely,  and  turned  round  on  the 
old  man  with  a  face  like  stone. 

"Thou'rt  reet,  mistress,"  old  Job  said,  briefly. 

She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"You  found  him?" 

Job  nodded,  and  looked  away. 

"  By  the  tarn  ? " 

"Ay." 

"  I  am  coming,"  said  Lisbeth,  resolutely.  She  drew  her 
shawl  closely  around  her,  and  rose  up.  The  old  man  tried 
to  keep  her  back. 

"Nay,  mistress,  nay,"  he  said,  pitifully;  "it  be  no  sight 
for  thee." 

"  If  not  for  me,  for  whom  beside  ?  'n  she  asked  him,  with 
a  strange  laugh,  which  sounded  sadder  than  a  moan. 

He  did  not  quite  understand,  but  shook  his  head,  and 
11 


158  THE   MISTRESS  OF  "QUEST. 

followed  her  as  she  went  straight  out  of  the  cottage,  and 
into  the  track  that  led  to  the  lower  side  of  the  tarn.  He  had 
to  direct  her  once  or  twice,  but  she  made  no  response  in 
words,  only  taking  in  silence  the  path  that  he  pointed  out. 

The  searchers  were  collected  at  a  little  spot  on  the  edge 
of  the  tarn,  above  which  the  steep  bank  rose  sheer  and 
straight  to  a  height  of  thirty  feet.  They  had  scarcely  room 
to  stand,  for  there  was  but  a  narrow  shelving  space  between 
the  water  and  the  cliff.  And  here  among  the  tangled  brush- 
wood, they  had  found  what  they  sought.  Something — some 
one — lay  upon  the  ground.  They  had  covered  it  with  a 
cloak.  As  Lisbeth  drew  near  the  men  stood  aside.  They 
did  not  even  look  as  she  came  swiftly  up  to  them,  waved 
them  off  with  an  imperious  gesture  of  her  hand,  and  raised 
the  cloak  that  covered  the  horribly  silent,  motionless  thing 
that  they  had  found. 

Then  a  wild  cry  rang  out  upon  the  air  as  Lisbeth  dropped 
upon  her  knees  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  For 
she  had  come  upon  Zadock's  face. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  MURDER !  " 

Zadock's  dead  face — yes,  that  was  what  lay  before  her — 
Zadock's  face — finer  in  death  than  in  life ;  for  the  ugly  scowl 
had  gone;  the  vacant  look  had  been  replaced  by  all  the  maj- 
esty of  death.  There  was,  curiously  enough,  no  expression  of 
rage  or  hatred  upon  his  countenance.  It  was  perfectly  calm 
— noble,  even ;  as  if  the  mists  that  had  beclouded  his  brain 
so  long  had  suddenly  cleared  away,  and  left  it  as  it  ought  to 
have  been  if  James  Lorimer's  hand  had  not  once  struck  the 
growing  boy  to  the  ground  and  inflected  an  injury  that  had 
ceased  only  with  his  death. 

And  surely  it  was  right  that  his  face  should  wear  that 
strangely  new  expression  of  peace  and  quietude;  for  the 


"MURDER!"  150 

nature  of  the  man  had  been  originally  of  peculiar  gentle- 
ness; and  the  malice  and  violence  which  his  madness  had 
produced  were  in  no  sense  of  the  word  his  own  fault.  Who 
shall  doubt  but  that  the  poor  fool,  despised  and  dreaded  by 
his  companions  for  his  irresponsible  acts  of  lunacy,  had  en- 
tered upon  a  new  life,  where  the  clouded  spirit  became  itself 
again  ? 

Lisbeth  knelt  and  looked.  "Oh,  Zadock,  Zaclock!"  she 
cried,  and  there  was  an  intensity  of  grief  in  her  cry  which 
went  to  the  heart  of  those  who  heard  it.  And  yet,  in  her 
heart,  and  in  the  very  midst  of  her  sorrow,  there  was  a  thrill 
of  relief.  She  had  loved  Zadock ;  but  she  loved  Frank,  too ; 
and  she  was  glad  it  was  not  Frank. 

"  Did  he  fall  ?  "  she  asked  the  men,  presently.  "  Did  he 
suffer  much  ? " 

u  He  was  nimble  as  a  cat  i"  some  ways,'1  was  the  evasive 
answer.  "He  mout  hae  fallen — an'  again,  he  mout  not. 
Looks  rather  as  though  he  had  been — pushed  over  th'  edge. 
But  see  thee  here,  mistress! " 

They  came  forward  and  removed  the  cloak.  Then  Lis- 
beth came  forward  and  saw  that  a  knife  had  been  thrust 
between  the  ribs  of  the  unfortunate  man,  and  that  his 
clothes  were  stained  with  blood.  She  recoiled  in  sudden 
horror. 

"Why,  it's  murder!"  she  said,  sharply.  "Oh,  my  poor 
Zadock ! " 

"  I  don't  think  the  knife  killed  him,"  said  Job  Tyars. 
"His  neck's  broken  with  the  fall." 

Lisbeth's  eyes  began  to  gleam.  "  There  has  been  foul 
play.     I'll  find  out  who  did  this,  and " 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  she 
had  been  struck  by  a  cruel  hand.  The  thought  had  de- 
scended on  her  like  a  blow.  "  Perhaps  Frank  did  it."  Per- 
haps Frank  had  killed  the  poor  fool  whom  she  had  loved  in 
spite  of  his  defects;  and  perhaps  that  was  the  explanation 
of  Alys's  delirious  horror  and  belief  that  he  also  was  dead. 

"  I  could  not  love  a  murderer,"  she  had  said.  And.  look- 
ing on  the  dead  face  of  poor  Zadock,  Lisbeth  was  inclined  to 


160  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

re-echo  the  words.  "  How  can  I  love  the  man  who  killed 
my  poor  boy  ?  "  she  said  to  herself. 

Then  she  pulled  her  wits  together.  "  It  cannot  be,1'  she 
reflected.  "If  there  had  been  any  accident  of  this  kind, 
Frank  would  have  been  the  first  to  avow  it.  He  would 
have  come  forward  and  said  what  he  had  done.  And  he 
would  not  have  used  a  knife.  But  some  one  has  done  it, 
and  I  will  bring  whoever  it  is  to  justice— if  I  can." 

She  rose  from  her  kneeling  posture,  and  with  a  pale  face, 
from  which  all  expression  was  banished  by  a  violent  effort 
of  her  will,  she  gave  directions  that  the  police  and  the  doctor 
should  be  sent  for  at  once. 

"  You  had  better  not  move  him,"  she  said.  "I  believe  it 
is  the  right  thing  to  leave  him  untouched  as  much  as  possi- 
ble until  he  has  been  seen.  You  must  go  to  Crosthwaite — 
some  of  you.     I  will  stay  here  till  you  come  back." 

They  remonstrated  in  vain.  She  drew  up  her  haughty 
head,  and  looked  at  them  as  a  lioness  looks  at  those  who  try 
to  deprive  her  of  her  young. 

"  Why  should  I  leave  him  ? "  she  said.  "  Do  you  suppose 
I  am  afraid?" 

"  I'll  stay  beside  thee,  missus,"  said  Robin,  who  had  fol- 
lowed his  mistress  from  afar,  and  now  was  blubbering  like  a 
child. 

She  looked  at  him  and  hesitated  a  moment.  "  You  can 
stay  near  me,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  top  of  the  bank. 
"Go  there,  and  keep  watch.  If  anybody  comes  let  me 
know.     I  want  nobody  down  here." 

She  seated  herself  on  a  projecting  bank,  and  drew  the 
shawl  over  her  head,  so  as  partly  to  conceal  her  face.  The 
men  stole  away,  almost  afraid  of  her  in  this  mood.  They 
felt,  vaguely,  in  a  dim,  unconnected  way,  that  they  left  a 
tragic  figure  behind  them  on  the  border  of  that  mountain 
pool.  A  dead  man,  watched  by  a  woman  with  shrouded 
head  and  face ;  the  silence  of  the  morning  all  around ;  the 
eastern  sunshine  slanting  over  the  silent  land;  the  birds 
twittering  cheerfully  in  the  trees — there  was  a  contrast  here 
which  affected  them  without  their  knowing  why. 


"MURDER!"  161 

Lisbeth  had  almost  forgotten  Alys.  But  she  knew  that 
Mary  Tyars  was  an  excellent  nurse ;  and  the  doctor  said  there 
was  little  to  be  done.  Alys  was  safe;  but  Zadock — the  dead 
Zadock,  must  not  be  left  alone.  So  Lisbeth  sat  and 
mourned. 

A  few  tears  crept  slowly  down  her  pale  cheeks.  But  she 
did  not  cry  or  sob  aloud — her  grief  was  too  great  for  any 
such  outward  manifestations. 

Her  heart  had  clung  to  Zadock  in  a  curious  way.  He 
had  been  a  delightful  playmate  when  she  was  a  little  child; 
so  much  she  could  remember.  The  Wow  that  extinguished 
the  light  of  reason  in  his  eye  had  been  struck  by  her  father 
—she  had  long  realised  the  fact,  although  the  old  Verralls 
had  never  liked  her  to  allude  to  it,  not  understanding,  as  she 
did,  how  definite  the  medical  testimony  on  that  point  had 
been.  Lisbeth  had  never  forgiven  her  father  for  that  blow, 
ever  since  she  learned  the  truth.  She  had  clung  to  Zadock 
with  passionate  affection ;  and  all  through  her  earlier  girl- 
hood her  one  dream  had  been  of  a  time  when  Zadock  might 
be  restored  to  her,  when,  through  some  unlooked-for  discov- 
ery a  great  surgeon  might  undertake  his  cure,  and  give  him 
back  to  her  as  he  would  have  been  through  all  these  years 
if  that  cruel  blow  had  not  been  struck — with  eyes  un- 
dimmed,  spirit  unclouded,  brain  restored  to  activity  and 
usefulness.  As  to  his  heart,  Lisbeth  had  never  thought 
that  it  needed  alteration :  mad  or  sane,  Zadock  was  ever  her 
faithful  slave.  By  her  tender  care  of  him,  her  refusal  to  let 
him  be  shut  up  in  an  asylum,  she  thought  to  do  her  best  in 
reparation  of  the  mischief  worked  by  her  father's  hand — he 
had  seemed  to  her  as  her  child  for  whom  she  toiled,  and  whom 
she  loved  with  all  the  devotion  of  her  great  maternal  heart. 

Now  it  was  all  over.  He  was  gone.  There  was  nothing 
to  live  for  now.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  be 
mistress  of  Quest.  She  had  kept  on  the  farm  for  his  sake ; 
always  with  the  half -hidden,  secret  hope  that  "  some  day  " 
he  might  get  better,  and  be  able  to  manage  it  for  himself. 
But  this  hope,  this  purpose,  was  utterly  at  an  end.  Zadock 
was  dead,  and  Lisbeth  was  desolate. 


1Q2  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  she  should  sorrow  so  "bitterly 
over  the  death  of  a  man  whose  life  was  a  mere  burden,  and 
from  whom  she  could  obtain  neither  consolation  nor  satis- 
faction of  any  kind;  but  just  as  a  mother  often  loves  best 
the  sickly,  ailing  child,  who  tires  out  her  strength  with  its 
feebleness  and  its  complaints,  so  Lisbeth  cared  for  Zadock 
with  a  protecting  love  which  was  not  unlike  a  mother's  ten- 
der care.  Her  nature  was  essentially  maternal:  she  was  not 
happy  unless  she  had  a  weaker  creature  to  protect. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  before  the  men  came 
back  from  Crosthwaite  with  the  doctor  and  the  police.  There 
had  been  no  passers-by.  Eobin,  perched  on  the  cliff  above 
the  tarn,  had  had  nothing  to  relate.  He  had  once  ventured 
to  ask  whether  he  should  not  bring  his  mistress  some  food ; 
but  she  had  only  looked  up  to  rebuke  him  sharply  for  speak- 
ing to  her,  and  had  then  dropped  her  head  over  the  corpse 
again.     He  had  not  dared  to  speak  to  her  a  second  time. 

The  examination  of  Zadock's  body  proved  that  Job  Tyars 
had  been  quite  right  in  his  surmise.  The  neck  was  broken, 
apparently  by  the  fall.  There  were  livid  marks  of  fingers 
on  his  neck  and  arms ;  his  clothes  were  torn ;  and  there  were 
signs  of  a  conflict  in  the  broken  brushwood  and  trampled 
grass  at  the  edge  of  the  bank  or  cliff.  It  was  perfectly  evi- 
dent that  a  struggle  of  some  kind  had  taken  place. 

"  And  the  knife  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  stifled  tone. 

The  knife,  it  was  found,  had  not  penetrated  so  far  as  to 
cause  death.  Indeed,  the  doctor  suggested  that  Zadock 
might  have  been  holding  it  himself,  and  driven  it  uncon- 
sciously into  his  own  side  by  his  fall.  But  Lisbeth  treated 
this  suggestion  with  scorn. 

"Zadock  use  a  knife!  He  never  did  such  a  thing.  He 
never  had  a  knife  like  that.  Did  any  one  ever  see  him  with 
a  knife  ? "  she  cried,  appealing  to  the  men  who  stood  around. 

The  men  shuffled.  They  knew  what  she  wanted  them  to 
say.  And  they  were  not  sure  of  it.  One  of  them,  at  least, 
believed  that  he  had  seen  Zadock  with  a  knife  of  that  kind ; 
but  it  was  difficult  to  say  so,  when  the  mistress  wTas  looking 
at  them  with  angry,  indignant,  beautiful  eyes,  and  a  burn- 


"MURDER!"  163 

ing  spot  of  colour  on  her  pale  cheek.  He  compromised,  and 
remarked,  cautiously,  that  he  would  not  like  to  say.  And 
no  one  else  volunteered  any  information. 

"Any  traces  of  the  other  person  ?"  some  one  inquired. 

No,  there  were  no  traces.  Except  one— a  stud  which 
Eobin  had  picked  up,  and  was  now  holding  out  for  inspec- 
tion. The  police  inspector  took  possession  of  it,  and  called 
it  a  valuable  piece  of  evidence.  He  did  not  ask  Lisbeth 
whether  she  knew  it,  and  she  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  her 
throat  of  relief  that  he  did  not.  She  recognised  it  at  once. 
It  was  one  of  a  set  of  studs  which  Francis  Moor  was  in  the 
habit  of  wearing— plain  gold  studs,  given  him  by  his  mother. 
Lisbeth  knew  them  well. 

After  a  cursory  examination,  the  body  was  carefully  re- 
moved, and  carried  down  to  Quest.  Lisbeth  went  with  it, 
following  the  procession  like  a  mourner.  She  did  not  seem 
to  come  back  to  her  usual  self  until  she  had  seen  all  that 
remained  of  poor  Zadock  lying  wThite  and  still  on  the  big 
bed  in  the  room  which  had  once  belonged  to  his  father  and 
mother.  Lisbeth  had  never  cared  to  use  that  room.  In  her 
heart  she  called  it  "the  death-room."  She  might  almost  as 
well  have  called  it  "  the  birth-room,"  for  she  and  Zadock 
had  both  been  born  there;  but  the  fact  most  inalienably 
connected  with  it  in  her  own  mind  was  that  her  mother,  and 
Zadock's  mother,  and  Zadock's  father  had  all  died  and  been 
laid  out  in  that  room.  She  had  no  fear  of  death,  and  always 
imagined  herself  as  retiring  to  that  room  to  die  if  ever  a 
mortal  sickness  overtook  her.  But  she  did  not  give  it  to  the 
living — it  was  kept  for  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

When  this  was  arranged  she  began  to  think  of  Alys,  and 
her  tenderness  for  the  girl  began  to  spring  up  within  her 
and  comforted  her  a  little.  She  went  back  to  Job  Tyars' 
cottage,  and  heard  a  favourable  report.  The  fever  had  sub- 
sided, and  the  patient  had  fallen  into  a  natural  sleep.  When 
the  doctor  came,  Lisbeth  was  relieved  to  hear  that  there  was 
no  danger  of  brain  fever,  which  he  had  apprehended,  and 
that  the  high  temperature  and  delirium  had  been  mainly 
the  result  of  long  exposure  to  the  cold  and  damp,  together 


164  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

with  a  severe  nervous  shock.  The  doctor  was  almost  sur- 
prised to  find  her  so  much  better. 

"I  expected  more  of  a  complication,"  he  said  to  Lisbeth, 
with  whom  he  always  spoke  frankly.  "She  might  have 
had  rheumatic  fever,  after  lying  out  there  in  the  night  air 
so  long,  or  the  shock,  whatever  it  was,  might  have  touched 
her  brain.  She  is  doing  very  well  now.  Have  you  any  idea 
what  upset  her  ? " 

"  I  suppose  she  saw  the  struggle — the  fight  between  Za- 
dock  and — some  one  else,"  said  Lisbeth,  a  little  vaguely. 
Her  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  of  distress,  which  the  doctor 
did  not  like  to  see. 

"  Take  care,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "  We  shall  have  you  on 
the  sick  list  next.  Don't  be  over-anxious,  Miss  Verrall.  Has 
anything  been  heard  yet  of  the  man " 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  doctor,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  sudden 
sharpness.     " I  can't  bear  it  yet." 

The  doctor  was  surprised.  He  had  never  known  Miss 
Verrall  of  Quest  to  have  "  nerves  " ;  and  yet  that  speech  un- 
mistakably betokened  their  existence.  He  would  have  liked 
to  give  her  a  soothing  draught,  but  she  scouted  the  sugges- 
tion. 

"  Can  we  move  Alys  back  to  Quest  ? "  was  her  next  ques- 
tion. 

He  pursed  up  his  lips. 

"I'm  afraid  it  should  not  be  attempted  for  some  days. 
It's  not  only  the  moving " 

"What  then  ?" 

"  I  think  she  had  better  not  be  at  Quest  until  everything 
is  over.  You  know  there  will  have  to  be  an  inquest,  Miss 
Verrall.  She  might  hear  something  of  it,  and  the  nervous 
excitement  would  possibly  return.  Can  you  not  keep  her 
here  ? " 

"  In  this  little  cottage  ?  It  is  hardly  suitable  for  her," 
said  Lisbeth,  looking  round,  dubiously. 

The  doctor  smiled.  He  had  heard  of  Lisbeth's  tender  in- 
dulgence of  her  half-sister's  tastes. 

"It  is  warm  and  comfortable  enough,"  he  said.     "You 


"MURDER!"  I65 

can  send  to  Quest  for  all  you  want.  Old  Job  can  turn  in 
with  one  of  his  neighbours,  or  go  down  to  the  house,  can't 
he  ?    You  had  much  better  stay  here." 

Lisbeth  yielded.  She  saw  the  justice  of  the  doctor's  re- 
marks ;  and  yet,  if  she  had  been  able,  she  would  have  op- 
posed them  bitterly.  She  was  wild  with  impatience  to  be 
back  at  Quest.  Her  love  for  Alys  acted,  however,  as  a  curb 
upon  her.  She  could  not  abandon  the  girl  to  Mary  Tyar's 
nursing,  nor  would  she  consent  to  have  the  services  of  a 
trained  attendant :  she  saw  that  Alys  must  not  be  removed 
to  Quest  against  the  doctor's  advice,  and  therefore  she  was 
chained  to  the  girl's  bedside,  and  to  the  moorland  cottage. 
And  she  would  rather — far  rather — have  watched  by  Za- 
dock's  silent  form,  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  Francis 
Moor. 

For  he  would  come :  she  felt  no  doubt  of  that. 

The  police  had  been  "putting  two  and  two  together"; 
they  had  heard  that  Alys  and  Mr.  Moor  had  gone  up  to  the 
tarn  in  the  afternoon ;  and  Miss  Lorimer's  strange  state,  as 
well  as  Frank  Moor's  disappearance,  had  made  them  sus- 
picious. They  came  to  Lisbeth  and  wanted  to  interview 
Alys  Lorimer ;  but  Lisbeth  met  them  with  the  doctor's  or- 
ders that  no  one  save  herself  and  Mrs.  Tyars  should  go  in- 
side her  door.  They  tried  also  to  interrogate  Lisbeth,  but 
she  was  too  clever  to  answer  them.  "  If  I've  anything  to 
to  say,  I'll  say  it  at  the  proper  time,  and  in  the  proper 
place,"  she  said,  in  her  sharpest  tones.  "  You  needn't  think 
to  be  coming  to  get  news  out  of  me,  Mr.  Inspector." 

The  man  smiled,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little  as 
he  departed:  he  knew  all  about  Miss  Verrall,  and  her  sharp- 
ness of  tongue  did  not  discoucert  him.  It  was  fully  believed 
in  Crosthwaite  and  the  neighbourhood  that  Frank  Moor 
had  had  something  to  do  with  Zadock's  death ;  and  great 
curiosity  was  expressed  as  to  how  Lisbeth  was  u  taking"  it. 

"  Of  course  he  wasn't  her  brother,  although  one  gets 
into  the  way  of  considering  him  as  such,"  said  one  gossip 
to  another.  "  He  was  her  step-uncle,  by  rights :  her  mother's 
half-brother." 


IQQ  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"They  were  like  brother  and  sister  exactly,"  said  her 
friend.  "Lisbeth  Verrall  thought  all  the  world  of  him, 
although  he  was  but  a  limy." 

"She  used  to  think  he  would  come  all  right  again  some 
day,"  said  the  first  speaker,  confidentially.  "  She  was  awful 
fond  of  him.  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  Mr.  Moor  wasn't  court- 
ing her,  as  folks  used  to  say,  for  she  would  never  look  at  him 
again." 

"  They  say  he  took  up  with  that  soft,  white-looking  girl 
that's  been  staying  at  Quest,"  said  the  other.  "  She  must 
ha'  been  with  him  when  the  fight,  or  whatever  it  was,  hap- 
pened.    She'll  have  to  give  evidence  at  the  trial." 

"  If  it  comes  to  a  trial,"  said  the  gossipmonger.  "  But 
they  say  he's  fled  the  country,  and  gone  to  Amerikay." 

The  last  report  flew  over  the  place  like  wildfire,  and 
reached  the  ears  of  Lisbeth  before  long.  She  curled  her  lip 
scornfully  when  she  heard  it.  "I  think  you  forget,"  she 
said,  briefly,  when  Mrs.  Tyars  mentioned  the  report  to  her, 
"  that  Mr.  Moor— if  it  is  Mr.  Moor— is  a  gentleman." 

Mary  Tyars  stared,  and  did  not  see  that  that  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  matter. 

When  Lisbeth  had  a  few  moments  to  spare,  she  walked 
to  the  tarn,  and  generally  stood  looking  for  a  time  into  its 
translucent  depths.  In  her  heart  she  believed  that  Frank 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  pool.  If  he  were  not  dead,  he 
would  have  come  back,  she  said  to  herself,  to  tell  the  story 
of  Zadock's  death  like  a  man  of  honour  and  a  gentleman. 
If  he  stayed  away,  she  was  sure  that  it  was  because  he  could 
not  come.  "  Oh,  Frank,  Frank,  my  darling,"  she  found 
herself  crying,  with  arras  stretched  out  towards  the  silent 
water,  "can  you  not  hear  me  and  come  back — even  from 
the  other  world,  if  you  are  there  ? " 

But  no  answer  reached  her  listening  ear,  her  waiting 
heart.  She  walked  back  to  the  cottage,  and  took  her  place 
at  Alys's  bedside.  Alys  was  sleeping;  and  Lisbeth  was  able, 
by  and  by,  to  leave  her  alone  and  go  into  the  kitchen  in 
order  to  make  some  dainty  dish  with  which  to  tempt  the  in- 
valid's appetite.     It  was  almost  dark,  and  Mary  Tyars  had 


SINNED  AGAINST  OR  SINNING?  167 

gone  down  to  Quest.  Suddenly  Lisbeth  paused  in  her  work, 
and  lifted  up  her  head.  Some  one  had  paused  outside  the 
door:  some  one  was  looking  in  at  the  little  cottage  window. 
Was  it  Frank  Moor  ? 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

SINNED  AGAINST  OR  SINNING? 

Lisbeth  stepped  quickly  to  the  door  of  Alys's  room  and 
closed  it.  Then  she  went  to  the  house  door  and  looked  out. 
Francis  Moor  stood  there  in  the  gathering  darkness,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  There  was  a  hint  of  fatigue  and  exhaus- 
tion in  his  posture  which  Lisbeth  was  quick  to  see ;  but  there 
was  no  trace  of  sympathy  in  her  voice  or  manner  as  she  put 
her  strong  hand  on  his  arm  and  drew  him  inside  the  door. 

"  What  have  you  come  here  for  ?  "  she  said,  harshly,  but 
in  very  subdued  tones.  "  Why  do  you  come  creeping  up  in 
the  darkness  like  a  thief  ? " 

His  voice  was  very  hoarse  as  he  replied.  "  You  know 
why,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  words  sounded  to 
Lisbeth  like  an  admission  of  guilt. 

''  Every  one  is  wondering  where  you  are,"  she  went  on. 
"  You  were  a  fool  to  run  away — perhaps  you  are  a  greater 
fool  to  come  back.     You  have  put  yourself  in  the  wrong." 

"Lisbeth!"  said  the  man,  appealingly;  " Lisbeth!  You 
were  never  pitiless  before.  Let  me  speak  to  you — I  want  to 
tell  you  all." 

"  I  don't  want  to  listen,"  said  Lisbeth,  turning  her  shoul- 
der to  him,  so  that  she  should  not  see  his  haggard  eyes.  "  If 
it  were  you,  indeed — and  you  say  it  is — who  killed  my  poor 
Zadock,  my  poor  boy  that  I  have  worked  for  and  tended 
so  many  years,  why  should  I  ever  want  to  see  your  face 


again 


?" 


Why,  indeed  ?     Her  heart  cried  out  hungrily  for  the 


168  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

sight,  in  spite  of  all  her  hard  words.  But  she  kept  her  eyes 
away  from  his  white,  pain-stricken  face. 

He  turned  to  go,  as  if  he  had  not  another  word  to  say. 
But— either  from  illness,  or  hunger,  or  distress  of  mind — he 
wTas  very  weak;  and  as  he  went  he  staggered  and  almost 
fell,  catching  at  the  door-post  to  support  himself,  and  lean- 
ing his  head  for  a  moment  against  the  wall.  Lisbeth  flew 
to  his  side,  and  altered  her  tone  at  once. 

"  Lean  on  me,'*  she  said,  with  sudden  gentleness.  "  There ! 
you're  tired  and  ill,  I  see.  Sit  down  here  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  I'll  give  you  some  soup.    You  look  as  if  you  wanted  it." 

He  seated  himself,  but  shook  his  head  when  she  presented 
him  with  food.  "  I  can't  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  I  could  not  take 
it  from  your  hand,  when  you  think — as  I  see  you  think  of 
me." 

"  You  don't  know  what  I  think,"  said  Lisbeth,  brusquely. 
'*  Take  what  I  give  you,  and  don't  behave  like  a  child,  Frank 
Moor.     Why— Frank?" 

She  could  not  help  the  word,  the  softening  tone,  the  rush 
of  love  and  pity  at  her  heart.  For  Frank's  head  had  sunk 
upon  his  hands,  and  he  was  actually  crying — more  from  ex- 
haustion, perhaps,  than  from  mental  distress;  but  the  sobs 
came  against  his  wTill,  and  he  could  not  check  them  for  a 
little  time.  Lisbeth  forced  him  at  last  to  eat  and  drink,  but 
she  gave  him  back  his  self-control  by  a  word  of  warning 
rather  than  by  the  food. 

"  You  must  keep  yourself  quiet,"  she  said  sternly ;  "  for 
Alys  is  ill  in  the  next  room,  and  if  you  disturb  her  I  won't 
answer  for  the  consequences." 

He  recovered  himself  at  this,  sat  up,  and  gulped  down 
the  cold  water  which  she  had  brought  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  when  he  was  a  trifle 
calmer;  "I  ought  not  to  have  come  to  you.  But  I  did  not 
know  that  I  should  be  making  such  a  fool  of  myself.  I  will 
go  in  a  minute  or  two." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? " 

He  met  her  eyes  determinedly. 

"  I  am  going  to  Crosthwaite  to  the  police-station." 


SINNED  AGAINST  OR  SINNING?  169 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  quick,  indrawn  breath. 

u  To  give  myself  up  for  being-  the  cause  of  Zadock  Ver- 
rall's  death.  Poor  Zadock!  You  know  me  better,  Lisbeth, 
than  to  suppose  that  it  was  intentional  on  my  part.  I  was 
innocent  of  a  murderous  motive,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  But  I  killed 
him ;  yes,  I  killed  him,  and  I  am  ready  to  take  the  conse- 
quences." 

"  You  killed  him  ? "  whispered  Lisbeth,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
his  face. 

"  God  knows  I  would  give  my  own  life  to  call  back  his, 
Lisbeth— if  only  for  your  sake— and  hers !  " 

"  What  had  she  to  do  with  it  ?    What  did  she  see  ?  " 

"  She  has  not  told  you  ?  " 

"  She  has  not  been  able  to  talk  without  bringing  on  fever 
and  restlessness,  and  the  doctor  tells  us  she  must  not  be  en- 
couraged to  speak.  She  has  been  delirious — she  talked  then 
— I  heard  a  good  deal  then,  but  I  did  not  know  how  much 
of  it  was  true." 

u  I  can  tell  you  that  better  than  any  one,"  said  Frank, 
sorrowfully. 

"  Yes,  but — Mary  Tyars  may  come  back  at  any  moment, 
and  I  must  not  leave  my  sister  so  long  alone.  Yet  I  must 
hear  what  you  have  to  say.  Can  you  wait  for  me  ?  and  I 
will  come  out  by  and  by." 

"  I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  please.  But — Lisbeth,  we  are 
here  alone,  and  Alys  is  lying  there — could  I  not  see  her  once 
again  ?    I  want  to  tell  her,  to " 

"  No,  no,  you  must  not  see  her.  It  would  be  too  danger- 
ous.    It  would  excite  her  too  much." 

"  Does  she  not  want  to  see  me  ? "  said  Frank,  in  a  tone  of 
such  pain  that  for  a  moment  Lisbeth  stood  silent,  scarcely 
knowing  what  to  say. 

"  Alys  has  had  a  great  shock,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  lower 
and  gentler  voice.  "She  cannot  bear  any  excitement  at 
present.  I  do  not  know  how  she  feels  towards  you  when 
she  is  in  her  right  mind ■" 

"You   mean    that    in    her   delirium   she  shrank    from 


170  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Am  I  to  tell  you  what  she  said  ? "  asked  Lisbeth,  pas- 
sionately. "  Well,  if  you  want  to  hear,  you  shall.  She  said 
she  could  not  love  a — murderer.  She  said  it  would  be  better 
if  you  both  were  dead." 

Frank  stood  up  with  a  ghastly  face.  "  She  is  quite  right," 
he  said.  "  If  I  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  tarn,  it  would,  at 
least,  be  .well  for  me." 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  Lisbeth's  lips  than  she 
regretted  saying  them.  And  Frank's  tone  and  look  fright- 
ened her. 

11  Don't  speak  like  that,"  she  said,  her  pain  taking  as  usual 
the  form  of  imperiousness.  "  She  did  not  know  what  she 
was  saying ;  but  you  do,  and  you  need  not  talk  wicked  non- 
sense. You  had  better  wait  to  hear  what  she  says  when  she 
comes  to  herself." 

Frank  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  And  you — you,  too — 
think  that  of  me,  Lisbeth,"  he  said,  at  last. 

In  spite  of  herself  she  trembled.  She  did  not  want  to  tell 
him  what  she  had  thought. 

"  Time  enough  for  me  to  say  what  I  think  when  I  have 
heard  your  story,"  she  said,  coldly.  "Mary  Tyars  maybe 
here .  directly,  and  she  must  not  find  you  in  the  house.  Go 
outside :  it  is  dark  now,  and  you  wTon't  be  seen.  I  will  come 
in  about  half  an  hour." 

u  Does  it  matter  whether  I  am  seen  or  not  ?  "  said  Frank, 
rather  bitterly. 

She  evaded  the  question.  "  Please  go,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
no  time  to  talk.  Go  for  my  sake  if  not  for  your  own,"  she 
went  on  vehemently.  "  The  neighbours  would  think  shame 
of  me  if  they  knew  that  I  had  been  talking  with  you  to- 
night." 

Without  a  word  he  turned  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and 
went  out  into  the  night. 

Then  the  woman  who  had  seemed  so  cold  and  hard  to 
him  drew  a  curtain  over  the  lattice  window,  and  sank  upon 
her  knees  by  the  chair  where  he  had  sat.  The  tears  flowed 
down  her  cheeks,  and  her  whole  frame  was  shaken  by  a  few 
short,  convulsive  sobs.     It  was  not  often  that  Lisbeth  wept, 


SINNED  AGAINST  OR  SINNING?  ifl 

and  tears  did  not  come  readily  with  her;  but  the  words  with 
which  her  sobs  were  mingled  rose  easily  to  her  tongue. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  help  him ! "  she  cried.  "  And  help  Alys — 
and  help  me.  We  are  all  in  a  sore  strait,  Lord  .  .  .  but 
Thou  knowest  all,  and  Thou  canst  do  what  we  can't  do  for 
ourselves.  I  loved  my  poor  boy — and  he  is  dead ;  and  the 
man  that  killed  him  looks  to  me  for  help  .  .  .  and  I  love 
him  too.  I  cannot  tear  him  from  my  heart,  good  Lord.  I 
shall  love  him  as  long  as  I  live — in  this  world  and  the  next ; 
and  Thou  wilt  help  me  to  help  him — to  save  him— to  love 
him — at  any  cost ! " 

She  was  in  the  habit  of  praying  thus  for  help  and  guid- 
ance, and  the  calm  of  a  great  deep-seated  faith  was  not  easily 
disturbed  within  her.  After  a  few  minutes  spent  in  silence, 
she  rose  from  her  knees,  dried  her  eyes,  and  went  on  with 
her  preparations  for  Alys's  meal.  When  it  was  ready,  she 
entered  the  other  room,  and  proceeded  to  light  a  lamp  and 
give  her  patient  the  food  which  she  had  brought,  without 
the  slightest  trace  of  agitation  in  her  manner. 

Alys  took  it  passively,  almost  without  speaking;  but  when 
she  lay  back  upon  her  pillow  again,  she  said  faintly: — 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  speaking." 

"  I  was  speaking  to— a  tramp,"  said  Lisbeth,  calmly. 

"You  talked— a  good  deal." 

"I  gave  him  some  food.  He  was  nigh  perishing  of 
hunger." 

There  was  a  short  silence;  and  then  Alys  said,  in  a 
trembling  voice — 

u  It  was  not  Frank  ? " 

An  almost  imperceptible  pause  followed.  By  nature 
Lisbeth  was  the  most  truthful  of  women.  She  hated  a  lie 
with  a  fierce  hatred,  such  as  she  gave  to  cowardice  and 
cruelty,  and  other  of  the  meaner  vices.  But  what  could  she 
do  in  this  case  ?  She  bit  her  lips,  and— for  their  sakes,  she 
said  to  herself — she  told  a  lie. 

"  Certainly  not  Frank,"  she  said. 

Alys  seemed  but  half  satisfied.  "  It  sounded  so  like  his 
voice  !    Lisbeth— if  he-comes,  don't  let  me  see  him  !— don't 


172  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

— not  yet,  at  any  rate  1  I  could  not  bear  it,  indeed,  I  do  not 
think  I  could." 

u  You  shall  never  see  him  unless  you  wish,  my  darling," 
Lisbeth  said. 

The  girl  said  no  more,  and  Lisbeth  waited  quietly  until 
Mary  Tyars  returned  from  Crosthwaite.  It  was  nearer  an 
hour  than  half  an  hour  before  she  was  able  to  escape  from 
the  cottage,  and  take  the  path,  but  faintly  visible  in  the  star- 
light, which  led  to  the  banks  of  the  tarn.  She  knew  that 
she  should  find  Frank  there. 

She  was  not  mistaken.  She  had  not  gone  very  far  before 
a  dark  figure  joined  her,  and  walked  at  her  side  without  a 
word.  Lisbeth  led  the  way— not  to  the  spot  where  the  fatal 
conflict  had  taken  place,  but— to  a  lower  ground,  where  they 
were  screened  from  the  sight  of  wayfarers  by  a  bank  of 
brushwood  and  a  few  straggling  trees.  Here  they  seated 
themselves  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  for  the  night  was 
warm,  and  Lisbeth  had  pity  on  Frank's  evident  weakness 
and  fatigue. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first.  "  Now,  tell  me,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice.     "  Tell  me  what  you  like." 

"  There  is  very  little  to  tell,"  said  Frank,  in  a  tone  of 
utter  depression.  "  I  have  been  a  fool — I  need  not  have 
thrown  my  chances  away —  I  need  not  have  spoilt  my  life; 
but  I  seem  to  have  done  both." 

"  Is  that  all  you  can  think  of  ?  "  said  Lisbeth,  bitterly. 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  not,"  he  said,  stung  to  manlier  indigna- 
tion by  her  tone.  u  I  bitterly  regret  what  has  happened  for 
your  sake.  I  have  been  haunted  all  these  days  by  the 
thought  of  your  sorrow.  You  loved  him,  I  know,  poor 
fellow ;  God  knows  I  would  not  have  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head 
if  I  could  have  helped  myself." 

"  Yes,  I  loved  him,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  slow,  measured  ac- 
cents, from  which,  however,  the  bitterness  had  died  away. 
"  I  loved  him  because  he  represented  all  that  was  left  to  me 
of  home  and  family.  Alys  has  come  into  my  life  too  lately 
to  take  his  place.  When  I  saw  him,  I  recollected  that  I  had 
something  beside  myself  to  live  and  work  for;  that  he  was 


SINNED  AGAINST  OR  SINNING?  lf3 

my  charge,  my  care,  my  duty :  the  world  was  summed  up 
for  me  in  Zadock,  who  lies  in  the  death-room  at  Quest — 
quiet  enough  now,  and  not  likely  to  get  into  anybody's  way. 
...  If  we  are  to  talk  selfishly— and  it  seems  impossible  not 
to  do  it  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  when  pitying  neighbours  are 
apt  to  tell  me  that  I  should  be  thankful  after  all  that  he  is. 
dead — I  should  say  that  what  you  have  accomplished  is  not 
only  the  death  of  poor  Zadock  himself,  but  the  death  in  me 
of  anything  tender  and  loving  and  gentle— the  one  home-tie 
which  kept  me  from  becoming  hard  and  miserable  and  cold. 
If  you  have  spoiled  your  own  life,  you  have  spoilt  mine  too. 
It  is  a  selfish  consideration,  but  it  seems  that  we  are  bound 
to  be  selfish." 

"You  are  not  speaking  the  truth,"  cried  Frank,  almost 
passionately.  "  You  could  never  be  hard  or  cold.  It  is  not 
in  your  nature." 

"  It  is  in  my  nature  as  much  as  it  is  in  all  of  our  natures, 
when  we  have  nothing  to  care  for,"  she  answered.  "  What 
have  I  had  in  my  life  ?  A  father  who  neglected  me,  and 
took  away  the  reason  of  the  dearest  playfellow  and  comrade 
I  could  have  had  !  My  good  grandfather  is  dead,  and  Zadock 
now  is  dead;  there  is  Alys  left,  but  Alys  does  not  love  me  as 
I  love  her.     And  now  you — you — my  old  friend " 

She  stopped  abruptly :  something  rose  in  her  throat  and 
hindered  the  power  of  speech.  She  said,  after  a  pause,  in  a 
roughened,  jarring  voice — 

" You  have  done  me  the  greatest  injury  in  your  power; 
that  is  all." 

He  misunderstood  her  completely,  as  she  meant  him  to 
do.  He  thought  that  she  was  alluding  only  to  Zadock's 
death ;  whereas  she  meant  also  that  Frank  had  injured  her 
by  winning  her  heart  and  throwing  it  away.  But  this,  of 
course,  he  could  not  understand. 

"I  see,"  he  said  heavily,  uthat  I  have,  indeed,  done  you  a 
great  wrong.  I  came  back,  hoping  that  I  might  at  least  win 
your  forgiveness,  your  pity,  for  what  happened  the  other 
night.  But,  you  are  right:  Zadock's  death  has  made  you 
hard  already ;  you  do  not  care  to  think  that  I  was  virtually 


174  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

the  victim  of  circumstances,  and— I  firmly  believe— in  no 
wise  to  blame." 

They  sat  still  after  this  for  a  little  while.  A  wind  went 
soughing  through  the  branches  of  the  trees;  the  water  of 
the  tarn  was  a  little  ruffled,  and  they  heard  it  lapping 
.among  the  stones  below  their  feet.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
spirits  of  the  night  had  called  to  them  and  bidden  them  to 
love  and  pardon.  There  was  a  tranquil  look  about  the 
cloudless  sky,  with  its  hosts  of  shining  stars;  there  was 
complete  silence  among  the  everlasting  hills.  Frank  did 
not  look  up:  he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 
face  half-hidden  by  his  hands.  But  Lisbeth  looked :  and  to 
Lisbeth,the  influences  of  the  hour  brought  back  the  memory 
of  those  moments  when  she  had  knelt  and  prayed. 

"  I  am  wrong,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  gentler  tone.  u  I 
said  I  was  miserable ;  but  at  least  I  need  not  be  wicked.  I 
do  not  want  to  be  hard  on  you.  I  will  forgive  you  if  I  can. 
You  know  I  always  found  it  difficult  to  forgive.  But  tell 
me  how  it  happened:  I  ought  to  know." 

And  then  Frank  told  his  story— how  he  had  heard  a  cry 
from  Alys,  and,  turning  round,  saw  Zadock  running  upon 
her  with  a  knife  in  his  hand ;  and  how  he  had  flung  himself 
on  the  madman  and  wrestled  with  him  to  get  the  knife 
away.  Alys  had  fled,  and  he  knew  not  whither  she  went, 
but  possibly  she  had  seen  the  whole. 

"  We  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  edge,  in  spite  of  all 
my  efforts,"  said  Frank.  "  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  him  away 
—I  tried  to  loose  myself,  but  it  was  no  use.  For  some  time 
I  held  his  arm,  so  that  he  could  not  use  the  knife— he  was 
mad,  Lisbeth,  mad  as  he  could  be,  and  did  not  know  what 
he  was  doing  in  the  least:  but  at  last  he  got  it  free,  and 
raised  his  hand.  I  struck  out  wildly,  I  don't  know  how; 
but  his  hold  suddenly  relaxed,  and  he  fell  backward  over 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  amongst  the  brushwood,  where  you 
found  him,  down  below." 

"  And  then ?  " 

"Then,  in  great  horror  and  fear,  I  made  my  way 
down  the  bank,  and  tried  to  revive  him.     I  could  not  be- 


FORGIVENESS.  175 

lieve  at  first  that  he  was  dead.  But  at  last  I  gave  up 
hope." 

"You  should  have  done  something.  You  should  have 
called  the  cottage  people  at  once,  and  told  them  how  it 
happened,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  stifled  voice.  "  Then  they 
would  have  believed  you.  Now"  .  .  .  she  made  a  long 
pause,  and  finished  her  sentence  at  last  with  an  effort,  which 
showed  how  much  it  cost  her.  u  Nobody  will  believe  you 
now." 

"  That  is  true.  And,  perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps,  I  do  not  de- 
serve that  they  should." 

Lisbeth  looked  at  him.  "  As  your  story  runs  now,  you 
were  not — I  suppose— to  blame,"  she  said,  grudgingly. 

"  Yes,  as  it  runs  now.  But — I  don't  know  whether  I  have 
told  you  the  truth  or  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  My  brain  reels  when  I  think  of  it,  as  it  reeled  then," 
said  Prank,  pressing  his  hands  to  his  brow.  "  It  is  just  this, 
Lisbeth :  it  came  upon  me  as  I  stood  beside  Zadock's  body, 
and  the  thought  drove  me  into  the  wilderness  like  Cain.  If 
I  had  held  my  hand  at  that  last  moment — if  I  had  not  struck 
him  as  I  did,  with  a  wild  momentary  rage,  a  desire  for  my 
own  life,  and  for  his  death— for  one  of  us  had  to  die,  I  felt 
no  doubt  of  that  —  he  might  not  have  fallen  as  he  did. 
Whether  the  world  counts  me  to  blame  or  not,  I  cannot 
say ;  but — I  have  felt  during  the  past  few  days — as  though 
I  had  been  indeed — a  murderer.  Ay,  you  may  well  shrink 
from  me,  Lisbeth:  I  cannot  expect  you  to  forgive  me  now." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

FORGIVENESS. 

He  hid  his  face  again  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  He  ex- 
pected to  hear  words  of  reproach  from  Lisbeth — words  of 
bitter  anger  and  desolation.     But  he  was  mistaken :  his  con- 


176  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

fession  did  not  produce  any  such,  effect.  In  fact,  a  curious 
revulsion  of  feeling  took  place  within  her.  Now  that  she 
knew  what  Frank  had  really  done,  and  how  Zadock  had 
come  to  his  end,  she  had  nothing  but  pity  for  the  man  who 
struck  the  fatal  blow. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said,  after  a  pause.  "  I  could 
forgive  you  more  easily  now — than  before." 

"  That  is  quite  impossible.  I  am  beyond  the  pale.  Do 
not  force  yourself  to  say  kind  things  to  me,  Lisbeth.  I  know 
too  well  what  you — and  Alys — feel." 

"  I  and  Alys  are  two -different  persons.  I  have  no  shrink- 
ing from  a  man  merely  because  he  has  taken  another's 
life " 

"And  Alys  has?" 

"  You  had  better  not  ask  me.  I  do  not  know  how  she 
will  feel  when  she  is  strong  again.  At  present — but  go  on 
with  your  story:  you  have  not  yet  told  me  all." 

14  There  is  little  to  tell.  I  rushed  away  from  the  place, 
feeling  myself  an  outcast  from  mankind.     The  sight  of  his 

face — rigid  in  death— the  death  I  had Lisbeth,  I  can't  go 

on." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  did,  not  what  you  felt.  Where  did 
you  go?" 

Frank  lifted  his  face  a  little,  and  considered. 

"Upon  my  soul,  I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  he  said.  "I 
rushed  away  over  the  hills,  losing  the  track,  forgetting  that 
others  would  be  anxious  about  me,  forgetting  everything  ex- 
cept that  face — which  I  wanted  to  escape,  and  could  not  get 
away  from.  I  think  my  brain  had  some  sort  of  shock — I  do 
not  know  exactly  what  I  did.  I  spent  a  day  or  two  on  the 
hills,  and  then  I  got  a  train  and  went  to  London — but,  why, 
I  could  not  tell.  The  thing  that  brought  me  to  myself  was 
the  heading  of  a  newspaper  placard:  *  Shocking  occurrence 
near  Crosthwaite,'  or  something  of  that  kind.  When  I  saw 
that,  I  knew  I  ought  to  have  made  a  clean  breast  of  the 
whole  story.     So  I  came  here  to  do  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  went  away,"  said  Lisbeth,  gently.  "  You 
ought  to  have  stayed.     It  would  have  been  braver  to  stay." 


FORGIVENESS.  177 

Frank  uttered  a  sort  of  groan. 

"  I  have  not  been  brave.  I  have  been  a  fool — and  worse," 
he  said.  "Tell  me  what  has  happened  here,  Lisbetb,  for  I 
know  nothing." 

"  We  found  Alys  insensible,  about  midnight,  I  think. 
You  forgot  her,  Frank.  She  has  been  ill  ever  since.  And 
at  dawn  he  was  found.  The  inquest  was  held  on  the  second 
day  afterwards.  Alys  was  too  ill  to  attend  it,  but  she  made 
a  short  statement — a  deposition,  I  think,  they  call  it — that 
she  had  seen  you  and  Zadock  struggling  together,  but  that 
she  did  not  know  how  the  struggle  ended.  And  she  said 
that  Zadock  attacked  her  first." 

uAh!" 

"But  she  seemed  to  know  nothing  about  the  knife. 
Where  did  that  come  from,  and  why  was  it  in  his  side  ? " 

"  He  had  it  in  his  hand.     He  may  have  fallen  on  it." 

"  You  did  not  stab  him  ?  " 

"  Lisbeth  ! " 

"  They  have  said  you  did.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  the 
things  they  have  said  about  you.  The  verdict  was  man- 
slaughter, Frank :  it  would  have  been  murder  but  for  Alys's 
declaration  that  she  saw  my  poor  boy  attack  you  first; 
and  there  is  a  warrant  out  for  your  arrest — you  did  not 
know  ? " 

"  I  did  not  know  or  guess.  But  it  comes  to  the  same 
thing." 

"  Not  quite,  Frank.     If  you  had  been  here  at  first! " 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  quietly,  and  then  the  two  sat  silent  for  a 
little  while. 

"  And  you  believe  all  they  said,  Lisbeth  ?  You,  my  old 
friend!" 

"I  could  not  believe  that  you  had  used  the  knife.  It 
seemed  a  cowardly  thing  to  do." 

"  I  don't  kuow  why  I  should  be  glad  that  you  give  me 
even  that  amount  of  credit,"  said  Frank,  half -bitterly,  half- 
sadly.  "  As  I  told  you  just  now,  I  feel  myself  guilty— the 
murderous  instinct  rose  in  me " 

"  No,"  said  Lisbeth,  cutting  him  short,  and  speaking  in 


178  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

her  usual  clear  and  steady  tone.  "  That  I  will  not  allow  you 
to  say.  An  instinct  of  self-defence:  it  was  no  more  than 
that.  Now  that  I  know  all  the  truth,  I  can  judge,  and  I 
will  not  condemn.  Before— when  I  thought  you  had  driven 
the  knife  into  his  side— when  I  thought  that  you  had  fled 
from  justice  and  had  refused  to  bear  the  punishment  the  law 
decreed— then  I  despised  you.  But  now  I  do  not  despise 
you,  Frank:  I  honour  you,  because  you  have  come  back; 
and  I  will  not— I  will  not  hate  you— any  more." 

Her  voice  quivered  as  she  spoke  the  last  few  words.  She 
had  gained  an  immense  victory  over  herself;  and  she  had 
gained  it  by  force  of  her  sense  of  justice,  rather  than  of  love. 
She  was  hardly  prepared,  however,  for  Frank's  passionate 
gratitude.  In  a  moment  he  had  thrown  himself  down  be- 
fore her,  sobbing  out  his  grief  and  his  thankfulness,  with 
his  head  bowed  first  to  the  ground,  and  later  upon  his  very 
knees.  She  stroked  his  soft  dark  hair  as  he  lay  there,  as  if 
she  were  a  mother  with  an  erring  child ;  but  she  said  very 
little.  She  could  not  dare  to  let  him  know  how  pitiful  she 
was,  how  dearly  she  loved  him  after  all. 

The  passion  spent  itself  at  last,  and  then  she  spoke  slowly 
and  gravely. 

"  You  will  have  to  go  through  with  it  all,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  don't  know  what  they  will  do  with  you.  But  you  won't 
forget  that  I  am  your  friend— that  I  will  do  all  I  can  for 
you — strange  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  know  that  I  loved 
Zadock  as  if  he  had  been  my  brother.  But  you  are  another 
brother,  too." 

"  More  than  brother ! "  her  heart  cried  out ;  but  she  would 
not  give  it  voice. 

"You  must  not  despair — you  must  not  be  cast  down. 
You  must  believe  in  yourself  and  in  me.  I  know,  and  you 
know,  that  you  would  not  have  hurt  Zadock  for  the  world, 
if  you  could  have  helped  it.  It  was— mostly— an  accident; 
and  we  must  make  the  other  people  believe  it  if  we  can. 
Only,  you  will  be  brave  and  strong  ?  You  will  not  give 
way  to  despair  again?  Promise  me— for  Alys's  sake;  for 
your  mother's  sake  and  mine." 


FORGIVENESS.  179 

"I  promise.  I  have  the  courage  now  that  I  lacked 
before." 

"  You  will  conquer  if  you  have  courage.  Nothing  mat- 
ters—nothing that  the  world  can  do,  I  mean,  will  make  any 
difference  to  those  who  love  you,  if  you  do  not  let  yourself 
sink.     Your  true  friends  will  be  true  to  you." 

"And  Alys." 

"  I  can  speak  to  Alys  about  you  now.  She  will  learn  to 
understand.  And  now  I  must  go  back  to  her— and  you, 
what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  on  to  Crosthwaite." 

They  rose  and  stood  facing  one  another  in  the  dim  star- 
light. "  Good-bye,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Eemember 
that— after  all— I  forgive  you:  I  wish  you  well." 

"  Lisbeth,  can  you  give  me  your  hand  ?  Mine— has  blood 
upon  it." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  and  let  him  hold  them  in 
his  own  for  a  moment.     She  did  not  forgive  by  halves. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  feeling. 
" If  all  women  were  like  you !     Lisbeth,  good-bye." 

"God  be  with  you,  Frank,"  she  said:  translating  the 
word  of  farewell  into  a  longer  phrase.  She  was  standing 
on  rather  higher  ground  than  he.  She  bent  a  little  forward, 
and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  as  a  mother  or  sister  might 
have  done.  To  him  in  his  strained  and  fevered  state,  the 
kiss  was  like  a  benediction. 

Then  they  separated.  She  went  back,  slowly  and  mourn- 
fully, to  the  cottage;  and  he,  after  watching  her  until  her 
tall  figure  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  set  out  at  a  brisk 
pace  for  Crosthwaite.  The  weight  on  his  heart  and  brain 
seemed  half  removed  now  he  had  seen  her  and  heard  her 
say  that  she  forgave. 

Of  Alys  he  could  scarcely  bear  to  think  at  all.  Her 
memory  was  like  an  ever-present  pain— an  open  wound. 
She  had  produced  on  him  an  impression  of  perfect  and  spot- 
less purity,  of  exquisite  refinement,  of  culture,  which  made 
her  something  like  an  exotic  flower  in  the  northern  wilds. 
He  was  afraid  that  she  would  shrink  from  him,  that  she 


180  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

would  never  forget  that— even  in  her  defence— he  had  killed 
a  man.  His  love  was  of  the  passionately  adoring  kind :  he 
saw  the  angel  rather  than  the  woman  in  her.  He  admired 
her  fragility,  her  delicacy,  her  gentleness— just  the  qualities 
in  which  Lisbeth  was  lacking,  just  the  qualities  which,  as  he 
failed  to  see,  might  constitute  a  kind  of  weakness  in  the 
hour  of  need. 

He  comforted  himself  with  Lisheth's  words.  She  had 
said  that  none  who  loved  him  truly  would  love  him  less  for 
this.  She  would  tell  Alys  so.  And  Alys  would  believe  her, 
and  would  be  true  to  him  through  all  that  remained  to  him 
to  do  and  bear.  He  thought,  as  he  strode  along  the  silent 
road,  that  even  then  Lisbeth  might  be  telling  Alys  that  she 
might  trust  him  still,  for  had  he  not  come  back  to  do  his 
duty,  to  pay,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  each  farthing  of  his  debt  ? 

Poor  Frank !  His  imagination  played  him  false.  Alys 
was  in  no  state  even  to  hear  his  name;  and  although  Lis- 
beth thought  of  him  day  and  night,  and  made  herself  ac- 
quainted with  every  detail  of  the  things  that  were  happen- 
ing to  him,  she  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  her  sister  on  the 
subject  until  fully  a  week  had  passed. 

She  got  Alys  down  to  Quest  at  last.  The  girl  was  much 
better,  although  still  weak ;  but  she  was  able  to  leave  her 
room  and  lie  on  the  broad  soft  couch  which  Lisbeth  had 
placed  for  her  use  in  the  sitting-room.  There  was  no 
chance  of  her  being  able  to  sit  in  the  garden  for  many  days 
to  come;  the  autumnal  winds  had  broken  loose,  after  the 
long  space  of  summer  calm,  and  they  went  howling  round 
the  house  until  Alys  shivered  at  the  sound  as  if  she  thought 
that  it  was  like  the  cry  of  some  wandering  soul  in  pain. 

Little  by  little  she  began  to  perceive  that  the  life  of  Quest 
was  going  on  in  much  of  its  old  routine.  Lisbeth  spent 
more  time  with  her  than  usual,  but  otherwise  she  was  busy 
about  household  matters,  just  as  she  used  to  be.  The  old 
lady  in  the  kitchen  nodded  over  the  fire,  more  peaceably 
than  ever.  There  was  no  disturbing  element  now,  no  va- 
cantly fierce  face  to  scowl  at  poor  Alys  as  she  went  along 
the  passages,  no  growl  of  anger  to  meet  her  on  the  stairs. 


FORGIVENESS.  181 

If  Zadock  had  been  removed  from  her  path  in  any  other 
way,  she  would  have  been  heartily  glad  of  his  absence. 

Nobody  spoke  to  her  of  what  had  occurred ;  and  she  her- 
self, with  returning  strength,  began  to  feel  a  glimmer  of  cu- 
riosity as  to  how  things  had  gone.  She  summoned  up  strength 
at  last  to  say  to  Lisbeth,  in  a  hesitating  way — 

"  I  suppose — Mr.  Moor — is  not  at  home  ? " 

Lisbeth  came  at  once  and  took  a  seat  beside  her. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  asked  me,"  she  said,  "  because  there 
are  two  or  three  things  that  I  want  to  say." 

"  Oh — not  about  him"  said  Alys,  shrinking  away. 

11  Why  not  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  almost  cheerfully.  "  You  will 
be  glad  to  know  that  you  can  help  him." 

"  I— help  him  ?    How  ? " 

u  You  have  your  story  to  tell,  darling.  There  is  a  very 
clever  gentleman— a  lawyer— coming  to  see  you  to-morrow, 
and  you  will  tell  him  everything — all  that  you  saw  and 
heard  on  that  afternoon  upon  the  hill." 

a  I  can't — I  can't !  "  said  Alys,  her  eyes  dilating  with  hor- 
ror. "  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it— why  must  I  go  over  it  all 
again  ?    Indeed,  I  can't." 

**  For  Frank's  sake,"  said  Lisbeth,  softly. 

There  came  a  change  over  Alys's  face,  such  as  Lisbeth 
had  never  seen  before.  It  was  a  dark  look — half  of  terror, 
half  of  anger— a  look  that  positively  disfigured  the  face  that 
was  usually  so  sweet. 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  you  should  speak  of  him  in 
that  way,"  she  said. 

u  Do  you  not  ? " 

"  You  used  to  say  you  loved  poor  Zadock,"  said  Alys, 
vehemently.  "You  seemed  to  care  for  nobody  but  him. 
You  did  not  mind  how  much  he  frightened  other  people— or 
even  injured  them.  Indeed,  you  did  not;  he  was  all  the 
wTorld  to  you.  It  was  very  good  of  you,  no  doubt,  to  be  so 
kind  to  him." 

"  Alys,  he  was  like  a  brother  to  me." 

"I  know.  But  he  was  not  like  a  brother  to  anybody 
else,"  said  Alys,  with  the  persistency  of  a  weak  nature  that 


182  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

had  burst  the  bonds  of  fear,  after  harbouring  it  for  many 
weary  days.  "  Every  one  was  afraid  of  him,  but  you  would 
not  see  it.  You  kept  him  here  against  everybody's  advice. 
Yet  now,  when  he  is  dead,  you  don't  mind !  You  want  me 
to  help  the  man  who  killed  him !  Why,  even  I — who  did 
not  care  for  Zadock— I  hate  to  think  of  the  horrible  savage 
look  on  Frank's  face,  the  fierceness,  the  brutality.  And 
you  ask  me  to  help  him  in  some  way!  I  think  it  is  hor- 
rible!" 

"  Alys,  dear,  do  you  not  see  that  it  was  an  accident  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  it  was  not— it  was  a  fight.  Oh,  I  suppose 
men  must  fight;  and  Zadock  was  mad,  and  had  to  be  mas- 
tered ;  but  Frank  need  not  have  killed  him  for  all  that.  You 
are  a  cold-hearted  woman  to  forget  the  dead  so  soon." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  said  Lisbeth,  slowly.  She  sat  looking 
straight  before  her,  almost  wondering  why  she  did  not  feel 
more  keenly  the  sting  of  what  Alys  had  been  saying.  Was 
she  cold-hearted  ?  She  had  never  thought  so  before ;  "  but 
one  lives  and  learns,"  said  Lisbeth  to  herself,  without  bitter- 
ness.    u  I  thought  you  loved  Frank,"  she  said  at  last. 

Alys  answered  with  unaccustomed  emphasis.  "  Love  a 
man  who  is  to  be  tried  for  murder  ?    I  couldn't,  if  I  tried." 

"  Who  told  you  that  he  was  to  be  tried  for  murder,"  said 
Lisbeth,  with  a  frown. 

"I  heard  it  through  the  window.  Two  of  the  servants 
were  talking  outside,  but  they  did  not  say  whether  he  had 
got  away  or  not.     I  suppose  he  did." 

u  It  is  manslaughter,  not  murder,"  said  Lisbeth,  calmly. 
Then  after  a  pause  she  added,  "  He  is  out  on  bail  at  present; 
but  he  is  to  be  tried  next  month  at  the  Oossbury  Assizes, 
and  you  and  I  will  probably  be  called  as  witnesses." 

Alys  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror.  "Ohl"  she 
wailed,  "  why  did  T  ever  come  to  Quest  ?  Oh,  let  me  go  away 
from  this  dreadful  place!" 

It  was  long  before  Lisbeth  could  soothe  and  comfort  her 
—in  fact,  from  that  day  forth,  she  seemed  to  look  upon  Lis- 
beth with  a  certain  amount  of  suspicion.  It  was  to  her 
almost  incredible  that  Lisbeth  should  regard  the  man  who 


FORGIVENESS.  183 

took  Zadock's  life  with  anything  but  aversion.  Her  feeling 
for  Frank  had  changed  into  a  kind  of  shrinking  abhorrence, 
which  sprang  very  largely  out  of  a  physical  recoil  from  all 
that  was  painful  and  violent.  This  dread  of  suffering  or  of 
ugliness  in  any  shape  or  form  was  the  inheritance  which 
her  self  indulgent  father  had  bequeathed  to  her. 

Mr.  Crisp,  the  Moors'  family  solicitor,  came  to  see  her 
shortly  afterwards,  and  made  her  tell  him  the  whole  story 
from  beginning  to  end.  He  was  a  fatherly  old  man,  very 
fond  of  Frank,  whom,  however,  he  had  never  understood, 
and  he  had  been  prepared  to  find  a  flaunting  milkmaid  of  a 
girl  with  whom  Frank  had  had  a  foolish  flirtation.  He  was 
amazed  to  find  this  dainty,  delicate  creature,  with  lovely  face 
and  beautiful  draperies,  and  slender  white  hands,  in  the  old 
farm-house  at  Quest:  and  he  took  back  to  Lady  Adela  a  de- 
scription of  Alys  Lorimer  very  different  from  the  picture 
which  they  had  constructed  for  themselves. 

"  Why,  she  is  a  lady,  then  ?  "  said  Lady  Adela. 
u  As  far  as  birth  can  make  her  so,"  said  the  lawyer,  with 
a  little  smile. 

"  Her  testimony  will  have  all  the  more  weight " 

"Exactly.  If  she  gives  it  in  the  right  way,  and  on  the 
right  side.  For  some  reason  or  other  she  seems— preju- 
diced." i  T     1 

"That  must  be  Miss  Verrall's  doings,"  said  Lady  Adela, 
bitterly.  "We  all  know  how  Lisbeth  Verrall  petted  and 
protected  that  wretched  madman.  If  she  could,  she  would 
make  this  girl  doubt  even  the  testimony  of  her  own  eyes, 
and  proclaim  my  poor  Frank  a  murderer." 

"  I  think  nobody  can  doubt  but  that  tbe  blow  was  struck 
purely  in  self-defence,"  said  Mr.  Crisp.  But  he  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  uncomfortable.  It  was  an  awkward  thing  to 
find  that  the  only  witness  of  the  scene  was  inclined  to  take 
the  worst  possible  view  of  Frank's  behaviour.  Alys  had 
said  very  little;  but  her  look,  ber  tone,  had  been  enough. 
Mr.  Crisp  did  not  trust  her  as  a  witness  for  Frank  Moor's 
defence. 


1S4  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"  COME  !  " 

Edmund  Creighton  was  sitting  at  his  breakfast  with  the 
Times  before  him,  when  his  eyes  first  fell  upon  the  name  of 
Crosthwaite.  It  attracted  him,  of  course,  and  he  at  once 
read  the  account,  as  at  first  given,  of  Zadock  Verrall's  death. 
Frank  Moor's  name  was  introduced,  but  Alys  was  not  men- 
tioned. In  fact,  Lisbeth  all  along  kept  reporters  and  inter- 
viewers at  arm's  length,  and  would  not  allow  any  access  to 
Quest,  or  to  the  cottage  where  Alys  was  lying  ill. 

Edmund  telegraphed  for  news,  but  was  obliged  to  gather 
it  after  all  from  the  papers,  especially  the  evening  journals, 
which  made  much  capital  out  of  "  the  tragedy,"  as  they  usu- 
ally called  it ;  for  Lisbeth  answered  by  a  few  brief  words 
only,  stating  that  Alys  had  been  very  ill,  but  was  now  bet- 
ter. Armed  with  this  note,  and  after  collecting  every  atom 
of  information  that  was  to  be  obtained,  Edmund  proceeded 
to  pay  his  mother  a  morning  call. 

He  had  ceased  to  live  at  home.  The  atmosphere  was  un- 
congenial, especially  since  his  visit  to  Crosthwaite.  Mrs. 
Creighton  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  throwing  out  dis- 
agreeable remarks  concerning  Alys,  and  the  refusal  which 
she  suspected,  although  Edmund  had  never  confessed  it; 
and,  although  his  blandness  of  manner  was  seldom  dis- 
turbed, he  found  these  remarks  more  trying  to  his  com- 
posure than  he  liked.  Accordingly,  he  had  taken  for  him- 
self a  luxurious  suite  of  apartments  at  the  West  End,  and 
lived  his  own  life,  which  was  a  curious  mixture  of  hard 
work  and  self-indulgence.  He  was  already  successful  in  his 
profession,  and  determined  to  be  more  so;  and  he  was  not 
insensible,  in  the  interval  of  his  work,  to  the  attractions  of 
various  pastimes  of  a  refined  order  which  he  imagined  to  be 
necessary  for  his  well-being.  He  was  materialistic  to  the 
backbone ;  and  had  really  serious  reason  to  doubt  whether 
he  possessed  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  soul.  If  he  had 
had  one  once,  he  had  perhaps  destroyed  it. 


"COME!"  185 

Not  that  he  was  what  the  world  calls  a  bad  man.  He 
was  too  fastidious,  too  refined,  to  have  any  vices.  He  sim- 
ply lived  for  his  own  pleasure;  and  he  who  makes  pleasure 
his  deity  has  no  force  wherewith  to  withstand  temptation  to 
evil.  When  we  put  our  necks  under  a  yoke  to  the  world, 
we  have  no  conception  what  baseness  the  world  may  not 
require  of  us  by  and  by ;  and  when  the  time  comes,  we  do 
the  base  thing  because  we  are  slaves  already  and  cannot 
escape  it. 

Edmund  walked  coolly  into  his  mother's  morning"  room, 
and  sat  clown  in  his  favourite  chair.  His  mother,  seated 
at  her  writing-table,  turned  upon  him  almost  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  Well,  Edmund,  I  suppose  you  have  heard  this  disgrace- 
ful story  ?  " 

"  What  disgraceful  story  ? "  said  her  son. 

"  All  about  that  wretched  madman's  death.  Alys  Lori- 
mer's  share  in  it  is  very  freely  commented  on  in  most  of  the 
papers.  I  feel  extremely  sorry  that  I  ever  allowed  Julian 
to  associate  with  her." 

"  I  fancied,"  said  Edmund,  "  that  you  might  have  some 
notions  of  this  kind;  and  that  was  why  I  came  round  to 
you  this  morning.  You  see  it  is  somewhat  important  to  me 
what  you  say  of  Alys  Lorimer,  because  she  will  one  day  be 
my  wife." 

"  Nonsense,  Edmund !  A  girl  whose  character  is  im- 
pugned in  this  way." 

"  I  do  not  see  in  what  way  it  is  impugned." 

"  My  dear  boy !  To  begin  with,  she  had  an  assignation— 
that  is  evident— with  tbis  Francis  Moor.  Don't  you  recol- 
lect him  ?  he  came  here  one  day  with  your  father " 

"  I  saw  something  of  him  at  Crosthwaite.  He  had  known 
the  Verralls  all  his  life.     He  often  came  to  Quest." 

"  Well,  Alys  was  evidently  meeting  him  in  secret,  and 
was  alone  with  him  away  among  those  lonely  hills — most 
improper— when  this  half-witted  person  made  an  assault  on 
her.     Eeally,  I  almost  think  it  served  her  right !  " 

"  Served  her  right  to  be  run  at  with  a  knife  because  she 


186  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

happened  to  be  taking  a  walk  without  a  chaperon  ? "  said 
Edmund,  irreverently.  "  My  dear  mother,  you  are  driving 
things  too  far." 

"Not  at  all,  Edmund.  Alys  had  been  brought  up  in 
London,  and  knew  what  propriety  was,  but  she  seems  greatly 
to  have  forgotten  her  training.  I  have  been  questioning 
Julian,  and  have,  with  great  difficulty,  extracted  some  de- 
plorable details.     I  was  greatly  displeased  with  Julian." 

"I  don't  think  she  came  to  much  harm.    Where  is  she  ?" 

"  In  her  room,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton  severely.  "  I  could 
not  put  up  with  her  impertinence  any  longer,  so  I  sent  her 
there  to  stay  till  lunch  was  ready.  It  seems  that  she  ran 
wild  completely,  and  that  Alys  was  as  bad." 

'*  Neither  Alys  nor  Julian  did  anything  that  need  be  re- 
membered against  them,"  said  Edmund,  firmly.  u  You  have 
got  an  entirely  wrong  idea  into  j^our  head,  mother.  In  an 
out-of-the-way  place  like  Crosthwaite,  people  don't  think 
about  chaperons.  Alys  was  out  quite  naturally  for  a  walk 
with  Frank  Moor  wiien  this  half  mad  fellow  came  up " 

"  With  a  knife,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  in  a  tone  of  holy 
horror. 

"  A  knife,  eh  ?  Had  he  a  knife  ?  "  said  Edmund,  stopping 
short.     "  I  thought  there  was  some  doubt  about  it." 

UA  doubt!  There  is  always  a  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton, contemptuously.  "  He  was  found  stabbed— so  some- 
body must  have  had  a  knife." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  the  question  is,  which  of  them  ?  However, 
if  I'd  been  there,  I  should  have  had  not  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion in  doing  what  Frank  Moor  seems  to  have  done.  I 
should  have  pitched  the  fellow  over  the  cliff,  or  stabbed  him 
to  the  heart,  with  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  the  world. 
What  I  cannot  understand  is,  why  Moor  took  to  his  heels 
afterwards,  and  disappeared  for  the  greater  part  of  a  week. 
That  will  prejudice  a  jury  against  him." 

"  You  may  be  quite  sure  that  there  is  something  more  to 
come  out,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  impressively.  "  It  is  a  most 
scandalous  affair.  I  am  sorry  we  have  had  anything  to  do 
with  Miss  Lorimer." 


"COME!"  187 

"You  will  have  a  good  deal  more  to  do  with  her,  if 
things  turn  out  as  I  wish  and  intend,"  said  Edmund,  quietly. 
"  Mother,  I  came  here  to-day  to  ask  your  help  on  her  be- 
half." 

lk  Excuse  me,  Edmund.     I  do  not  wish  to  interfere." 

"As  my  promised  wife,  Alys  has  a  right  to  turn  to  you 
for  help." 

"Is  she  your  promised  wife,  Edmund  ?  " 

"Virtually,"  said  Edmund,  with  the  greatest  sangfroid. 
"And  this  is  the  time  when  we  can  be  of  service  to  her.  I 
want  to  go  down  to  Quest,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  away,  bear- 
ing an  invitation  from  you  to  her— to  come  and  stay  here 
for  the  next  few  weeks  or  months,  until  the  wedding  day  is 
fixed,  in  fact,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  He  thought  that  he 
might  as  well  take  things  for  granted:  knowing  Alys  as  he 
did,  he  felt  sure  that  she  would  turn  to  him  in  the  hour  of 
her  need. 

"  Why  should  she  come  here  ? "  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  with 
strong  displeasure. 

"  To  stop  the  world's  tongues  for  one  thing.  To  give  her 
a  home— and  a  change  from  Quest.  It  is  not  at  all  advisa- 
ble that  she  should  remain  there.  Her  nerves  must  have 
had  a  frightful  shock.  I  should  like  her  to  come  away  at 
once." 

"  She  will  have  to  be  a  witness,  I  suppose,  at  this  horrible 
trial." 

"  She  could  go  back  for  that.  Let  me  go  to  her,  and  in- 
vite her  to  come  at  once." 

Of  course  Edmund  did  not  know  that  at  that  time  Alys 
could  not  possibly  have  travelled:  she  had  not  then  even 
been  moved  to  Quest;  but  he  had  not  had  sufficient  informa- 
tion from  Lisbeth  to  be  aware  of  her  state. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Edmund,"  said  his  mother,  with  de- 
cision, "but  I  must  really  refuse  your  request.  I  have 
young  daughters,  I  cannot  let  them  associate  with  any  one 
so  regardless  of  the  laws  of  society  as  Miss  Lorimer  has 
proved  herself  to  be." 

Edmund  uttered  a  short,  irritated  laugh.     "  Poor  Alys !  " 


188  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

he  said.  "I  believe  she  adores  propriety  in  her  heart, 
and  hates  the  wilds  to  which  Fortune  has  condemned 
her." 

"  Why  did  she  go  there,  then  ? " 

"  Where  else  had  she  to  go,  mother  ? " 

"  She  knew  very  well  that  you  were  dying  to  marry  her," 
said  his  mother,  scornfully.  "  She  chose  to  refuse  you — I 
know  it  well  enough — and  she  will  refuse  you  again.  I 
hope  she  will.  She  is  one  of  those  persons  who  have  the 
faculty  of  attracting  disaster.  1  am  not  superstitious;  but 
I  do  think  some  people  are  born  to  be  unlucky.  Alys  Lori- 
mer  is  one  of  them,  and  I  will  not  have  her  here." 

"  My  only  resource,  then,  will  be  to  marry  her  at  once," 
said  Edmund,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  If  she  will  have  you !  "  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  with  a  con- 
temptuous laugh.  "  And  I  should  advise  you  to  inquire 
very  closely  into  her  relations  with  Mr.  Francis  Moor  before 
you  ask  her  to  become  your  wife." 

Edmund's  grey  eye  sent  out  a  spark  of  fire.  He  stopped 
short  as  he  was  leaving  the  room,  and  looked  steadily  at  his 
mother. 

"  If  you  say  things  of  that  sort,"  he  said,  "  you  need  not 
expect  that  you  will  ever  see  me  in  this  house  again." 

Then  he  turned  and  went  out,  with  a  not  altogether  dis- 
agreeable sense  of  warmth  at  his  heart.  It  was  something 
new  for  him  to  strike  a  blow  in  defence  of  the  absent — even 
of  those  he  liked.  It  generally  seemed  wiser  to  hold  one's 
tongue.  But  now  he  had  spoken  strongly  on  Alys's  behalf, 
he  loved  her  the  more  for  it  and  respected  himself  for  the 
strength  of  his  affection. 

He  did  not,  however,  go  north  at  once.  He  wrote  to 
Lisbeth  asking  for  details  about  Alys,  and  received  a  letter 
from  the  doctor  in  return.  Lisbeth  was  too  much  occupied 
to  write.  Edmund  knitted  his  brows  over  the  doctor's  re- 
port, and  debated  within  himself  whether  he  might  not  ven- 
ture to  send  a  specialist  down  to  London;  but  finally  he  de- 
cided to  wait.  And  when  he  had  another  letter,  he  received 
an  account  of  such  improvement  in  Alys's  health  that  he  de- 


"COME!"  139 

cided  to  wait  a  little  longer.     When  she  could  receive  visi- 
tors he  would  go. 

But  before  he  had  the  expected  letter  from  the  doctor, 
giving  him  permission  to  see  her,  he  had  a  few  lines  from 
Alys  herself.  They  made  his  heart  beat  faster  than  it  had 
done  for  years. 

"  Dear  Edmund,"  the  letter  ran, — "  will  you  come  and  see 
me  ?    I  have  something  very  important  to  say.     "  Alys." 

He  went  by  the  night  train.  And  all  through  the  jour- 
ney his  mind  was  occupied,  partly  by  the  thought  of  Alys, 
and  partly  by  a  consideration  that  was  suggested  to  him  by 
the  Westminster  Gazette. 

The  knife  which  had  been  found  in  Zadock's  side— to 
whom  had  it  belonged  ?  The  question  of  murderous  intent 
seemed  to  be  hanging  in  the  air,  although  nobody  breathed 
the  words.  Had  it  belonged  to  Zadock  ?  Nobody  was  able 
to  say  whether  Zadock  possessed  a  knife  of  that  kind  or  not. 

It  came  back  to  Edmund's  mind  that  he  had  passed  an 
outhouse  once  in  the  dusk  of  a  warm  evening,  and  had  seen 
Zadock  bent  upon  the  work  of  sharpening  a  knife.  He 
had  spoken  to  the  man — spoken  about  the  knife.  And  Za- 
dock had  said  to  him  that  he  meant  to  kill  the  squire  with  it 
— that  was  Frank;  and  missy  too — that  was  Alys  ;  because 
they  made  Lisbeth  cry. 

"  It's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  Edmund  to  himself. 
"No  doubt  they  have  other  witnesses.  Of  course,  if  they 
have  not,  a  piece  of  evidence  like  this  would  mean  some- 
thing— it  would  certainly  influence  the  verdict — but  it  won't 
be  necessary.  It  would  be  an  awful  nuisance  to  have  to 
give  'evidence  for  the  accused.'  Hang  the  fellow!  I 
wish  he  were  hanged.  What  business  had  he  to  come  be- 
tween Alys  and  me  ?  I  only  hope  Alys  is  tired  of  him  by 
this  time." 

He  reached  Crosthwaite  in  the  morning,  and  with  his 
accustomed  coolness  went  to  the  hotel,  had  a  bath  and 
breakfast,  smoked  and  looked  at  the  newspaper  before  walk- 
ing up  to  Quest.  "No  use  in  getting  there  too  early,"  he 
18 


190  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

said  to  himself.  "  Alys  won't  be  ready  for  visitors  till  the 
middle  of  the  day." 

It  was  more  than  the  middle  of  the  day — it  was  nearly 
Jour  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  by  the  time  he  arrived  at 
Quest. 

He  had  telegraphed  that  he  was  coming,  and  they  were 
expecting  him.  The  servant  showed  him  at  once  into  the 
sitting-room.  Lisbeth  did  not  appear.  She  had  had  a  pre- 
monition of  what  was  about  to  happen  ever  since  Alys  told 
her  that  she  had  written  to  Edmund  Creighton. 

The  broad,  comfortable  couch  was  drawn  up  near  the 
fire,  and  upon  it,  wrapped  in  shawls,  lay  the  girl  whom  Ed- 
mund intended  to  make  his  wife.  But  how  changed  she 
was  !  The  colour  had  left  her  cheeks:  even  her  lips  were 
colourless:  her  great  blue  eyes  looked  too  large  for  her 
face;  the  veins  showed  upon  her  temples  and  in  her  thin 
white  hands.  But  when  Edmund  appeared,  she  raised  her- 
self a  little,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  with  a  little  cry. 

"Oh,  you  have  come  !  You  have  come  !  I  am  so  glad  ! 
Edmund,  take  me  away  ! " 

It  was  all  that  he  had  hoped  to  hear,  he  was  wildly  glad 
and  triumphant,  for  not  only  his  love  but  his  vanity  was 
satisfied ;  but  he  did  not  betray  any  exuberance  of  joy.  He 
felt  that  any  buoyant  utterance  would  distress  her — shock 
her  even;  he  must  keep  very  calm,  very  quiet,  if  he  wanted 
to  make  her  his  own.  He  held  her  hand  in  both  his  own 
for  a  minute  or  two,  then  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  couch 
and  sat  down. 

"  My  poor  little  girl ! "  he  said,  tenderly.  "  So  this  is 
what  they  have  made  of  you  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  they 
would  kill  you  between  them  ? " 

k'  Oh,  Edmund,  all  that  you  said  was  true.  It  is  a  dread- 
ful place.     They  are  all  fierce,  savage,  rough— even  he " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  I  never  thought  him  worthy 
of  you.  If  it  had  been  a  better  man,  I  could  more  easily 
have  given  you  up." 

"  Have  you  not  given  me  up  ? "  said  Alys,  timidly,  as  if 
fearing  a  rebuff. 


"COME!"  191 

"  Should  I  have  come  if  I  had  ? " 

"Ah  !  You  said  I  might  always  say  'Come.'  And  I 
did — because  I  must  get  away  from  here." 

"You  shall  get  away,  my  sweet.  You  shall  go  to  the 
sunny  south— the  land  of  birds  and  flowers  and  brightness, 
where  you  ought  to  be.  We  will  go  together,  will  we 
not  ? " 

He  stroked  her  hand  caressingly  as  he  put  the  question. 
But  casually,  and  even  carelessly,  as  it  seemed  to  be  asked, 
he  had  an  intention  behind  it.  He  wanted  to  know  whether 
she  was  really  prepared  to  marry  him,  or  whether  she  had 
only  a  vague  idea  of  travelling  under  his  convoy  to  some 
house  where  she  could  be  nursed  back  to  health  and 
strength,  in  order  to  marry  that  other  man  some  other  day. 
He  must  ascertain  this  before  he  went  any  farther. 

She  looked  scared  at  once,  and  drew  her  hand  away. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  piteously.  "  1  don't  believe  I 
can  ever  love — anybody — again." 

"  So  long  as  you  don't  love  anybody  else  better  than  me, 
I  do  not  mind,"  said  Edmund. 

"  Even  if  I  do  not  care — even  for  you  ? " 

"  But  you  do  care — a  little,"  he  answered,  smiling  confi- 
dently into  her  eyes. 

"A  very  little." 

"That  is  enough." 

"  But  you  will  take  me  away,  Edmund ;  you  will  take  me 
away  from  Quest  ?  It  is  killing  me ;  I  cannot  stay  here  all 
the  winter — I  shall  die,  as  you  said  I  should. " 

"  My  bird,  my  flower,  you  shall  never  see  winter  again  if 
I  can  help  it,"  he  murmured  softly.  He  had  slipped  down 
to  his  knees,  and  had  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  She  leaned 
against  his  shoulder,  and  shed  some  tears — half  of  weakness, 
half  of  relief. 

"  Oh,  Edmund,  ought  I  ?  Does  it  not  seem— cruel,  to 
abandon  him — when  he  is  in  trouble  ?  " 

She  dared  put  the  question  when  she  was  sure  of  the 
reply. 

"  My  darling,  do  you  think  T  could  bear  to  see  you  link 


192  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

your  life  with  that  of  a  murderer  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  would 
rather  you  died  first." 

"I  would  rather  die  first,  too,"  said  Alys,  helplessly. 
"  Oh,  it  is  so  dreadful  !  Think  of  being  mixed  up  with  a 
trial — of  having  your  name  in  the  papers — and  talked  about 
by  everybody.  I  want  to  get  away  from  it  all.  Oh,  perhaps 
it  was  not  Frank's  fault — but  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  him 
now.  You  would  never  be  cruel  to  any  one,  would  you, 
Edmund  ? " 

She  was  trembling  so  violently  that  he  felt  obliged  to 
kiss  and  caress  her  in  order  to  soothe  her  into  quietness 
again.  She  accepted  his  kisses  passively,  and  yet  with  a 
certain  pleasure.  It  was  natural  to  her  to  be  petted  and 
comforted  like  a  child. 

Lisbeth  looked  in  once,  and  immediately  withdrew.  One 
brief  glance  told  her  all. 

She  went  upstairs  again,  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
at  the  wind-swept  fell  side  and  the  darkening  grey  sky. 
She  thought  of  the  two  men  she  had  loved — one  lay  in  the 
churchyard,  and  one  in  Crossbury  Gaol.  And  Alys  had 
deserted  the  man  who  still  was  dearer  to  Lisbeth  than  her 
life. 

"  Does  nobody  in  the  world  know  how  to  love  but  me  ? " 
said  Lisbeth  to  herself,  with  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  TRIAL. 

Edmund  quoted  several  proverbs  to  himself  that  night, 
such  as  those  about  "  not  letting  the  grass  grow  under  one's 
feet,"  "  making  hay  while  the  sun  shone,"  and  "  taking  the 
bull  by  the  horns."     The  bull,  in  this  case,  meant  Lisbeth. 

When  Alys  had  gone  to  her  room,  for  she  was  too  weak 
to  sit  up  for  very  long,  he  attacked  Miss  Verrall  at  once.  He 
was  a  little  afraid  of  Lisbeth.     She  was  too  tall,  too  strong, 


THE  TRIAL.  193 

too  capable  for  him.  In  his  heart  he  called  her  "  unwom- 
anly." But  he  was  inclined  to  like  her  more  than  usual 
just  now,  because  of  the  traces  of  trouble  in  her  face— she 
could  not  hide  the  fading  of  her  colour  or  the  dark  shad- 
ows below  her  troubled  eyes.  He  almost  fancied  that  he 
could  discern  a  silver  line  in  the  sombre  cloud  of  her  dark 
hair. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  nervous,  as  he  looked  at  her  after 
tea,  and  resolved  to  speak  his  mind.  There  was  something 
stern  in  her  air,  something  of  a  masculine  strength  upon 
her  brow.  He  stood  up  and  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair, 
which  he  rocked  backward  and  forward  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  particularly  wish  to  have  a  word  with  you,  Miss  Ver- 
rall,"  he  said. 

14  Yes,  so  I  thought,"  Lisbeth  replied.  She  took  up  her 
knitting,  and  plied  the  needles  vigorously. 

This  was  disagreeable.  Edmund  was  not  used  to  such 
brusque  replies,  nor  to  women  who  knitted  when  he  talked. 
He  looked  at  Lisbeth  with  speechless  distaste. 

"  Alys  has  spoken  to  you,  I  suppose  ? "  he  said  at  last. 

11  Alys  has  said  nothing.  But  I  happen  to  have  eyes  in 
my  head." 

She  spoke  with  positive  temper.  Mr.  Creighton  was  a 
little  shocked,  and  adopted  a  colder  tone. 

"  Then,  I  need  hardly  say,  you  will  not  be  surprised. . 
Your  sister  and  I  have  known  each  other  for  some  time,  and 
I  am  sincerely  attached  to  her.     I  am  happy  to  say  that  she 
has  consented  to  be  my  wife." 

No  answer.  Lisbeth  bent  her  head  over  her  work,  and 
knitted  savagely. 

"  I  think,"  said  Edmund,  raising  his  voice  a  little,  and 
letting  the  chair  go  down  to  the  floor  again,  "that  Quest  is 
an  unsuitable  place  for  her — in  winter.  She  is  too  delicate 
to  stand  the  severe  cold,  or  the  strain  of  such  incidents  as 
have  lately  occurred.  I  propose,  Miss  Verrall,  to  make  her 
my  wife  at  once,  and  take  her  away." 

Then  Lisbeth  stopped  knitting.  Her  dark  eyes  blazed  up 
at  him  fiercely. 


191  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

uAt  once  %  "  she  repeated,  with  terrible  emphasis  on  the 
words. 

ki  Yes,  at  once.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  a  special  licence. 
Within  the  week,"  said  Edmund. 

"Does  Alys  consent  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  put  it  to  her  in  so  many  words,  but  I  believe 
she  will." 

"  Then,  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  cold,  cut- 
ting scorn  in  every  word.  "  Alys  is  not  so  base— so  cruel — 
as  you  would  make  her  out.  She  will  not  consent  to  marry 
you  while  Francis  Moor's  fate  hangs  in  the  balance— it 
would  be  a  heartless  thing  to  do." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Verrall,"  said  Edmund,  quietly,  "  do  you 
suppose  that  she  cares  what  becomes  of  Francis  Moor  at  all  ? " 

Lisbeth  looked  at  him  silently.  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
cheeks  and  temples  in  a  violent  tide  of  crimson,  then  re- 
treated, leaving  her  white  as  death.  He  wondered  why  she 
changed  colour  so  quickly;  but  he  did  not  know  that  his 
question  had  seemed  to  her  almost  an  insult  to  Alys  herself. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  but  you  ought  not  to  marry  Alys  in  ignorance.  She 
and  Frank  Moor " 

"  Oh,  excuse  me,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Edmund, 
with  an  airy  laugh.  "  Alys  is  a  simple,  truthful  little  thing; 
she  told  me  long  ago.  A  mere  boy  and  girl  attachment, 
fortunately  for  me ;  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  lasts.  It  is 
all  over  now." 

"  All  over !  "  said  Lisbeth,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him 
"  and  Frank  is  in  prison  still  ?  " 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Edmund — he  would  have  said 
"my  dear  lady"  had  Lisbeth  been  a  little  higher  in  the 
social  scale—"  what  has  Alys  to  do  with  that  ? " 

Lisbeth  put  her  knitting  on  the  table,  folded  her  hands, 
and  turned  her  face  away.  She  felt  rather  sick.  To  think 
that  Frank  was  no  more  than  this  to  the  girl  whom  he  had 
loved  was  a  great  shock  to  her. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Edmund  decidedly,  "that  Alys  is  ex- 
tremely unwell.     She  ought  not  to  stay  another  day  in  this 


THE  TRIAL.  195 

part  of  the  world.  I  propose  that  we  should  be  married  as 
soon  as  possible,  then  that  I  should  take  her  for  a  short  time 
to  Bournemouth  or  some  other  southern  watering-place, 
from  which  she  could  come  to  Crossbury,  if  necessary,  for  a 
day  or  two  during  the  course  of  the  trial.  When  that  is 
over  I  shall  at  once  take  her  abroad." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Lisbeth,  calmly.  "  Now  I  understand. 
There  is  only  this  to  be  said.  I  shall  not  countenance  any 
such  marriage  before  the  trial.  It  would  be,  to  my  thinking, 
a  terrible  insult  to  Mr.  Moor.  A  most  painful  and  unneces- 
sary piece  of  cruelty.  The  trial  is  only  three  weeks  off.  She 
can  wait  surely  for  the  end  of  that." 

fa  I  cannot  wait,"  said  Edmund. 

"If  you  want  her,  you  must  come  back  for  her.  She 
will  not  marry  you  now  if  she  has  any  regard  for  me." 

"  And,  pray,  why  not  ? "  A  sneer  curled  his  thin  lips. 
"  Mr.  Moors  feelings  seem  very  dear  to  you." 

"  I  have  known  Mr.  Moor  and  his  mother  all  my  life," 
said  Lisbeth.  "  Mischief  has  come  to  them  already  through 
those  that  live  at  Quest,  and  I  will  not  give  either  of  them 
an  additional  grief  to  bear  if  I  can  help  it.  If  Alys  goes 
away  and  marries  you  before  the  trial,  she  need  never  come 
back  to  Quest.  I  should  think  it  a  wanton  insult  to  a  man 
who  had  perilled  his  life  and  his  honour  in  her  defence." 

Edmund  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  think  you  are 
unanswerable,  Miss  Verrall.  May  I  ask  you  whether  Mr. 
Moor  would  not  have  defended  himself  against  the  attack  of 
that  poor  lunatic  if  Alys  had  not  been  there  ?  You  are  tak- 
ing an  absurd  and  impracticable  view  of  the  affair." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Lisbeth,  steadily.  "  I  know  how 
he  loved  her— loves  her  still,  and  I  thought  Alys  loved  him 
too.  I  call  it  a  piece  of  positive  indecency  for  her  to  marry 
another  man  before  he  has  been  declared  innocent  or  guilty, 
and  I  will  not  give  any  such  marriage  my  sanction.  If 
she  wants  to  marry  you  so  soon,  I  shall  tell  her  to  leave  my 
house  tomorrow.     It  shall  not  be  done— with  my  consent." 

She  carried  her  point.  After  a  good  deal  more  argument, 
Edmund  had  the  wit  to  see  that  she  was  impregnable ;  and 


196  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

as  he  did  not  wish  to  make  a  scandal,  or  to  remove  Alys  at 
once  from  Quest,  he  was  obliged  to  give  way.  But  he  owed 
Lisbeth  a  grudge  henceforth. 

"  Gad,  I  believe  she's  in  love  with  the  fellow  herself,"  he 
said,  as  he  trod  the  path  that  led  to  the  Crosthwaite  Arms. 
"  I'll  drop  a  hint  in  the  right  quarter,  I  think,  and  let  her 
have  a  little  bullying  at  the  trial.  She  is  just  the  woman  to 
fly  into  a  rage  at  some  of  the  questions  that  could  be  asked. 
...  I  wonder  what  her  real  motive  is  for  wanting  to  delay 
the  marriage  till  after  the  trial."  It  hardly  occurred  to  him 
that  she  could  have  no  other  motive  than  the  desire  to  save 
Frank  pain.  "  I  suppose  she  thinks  he'll  be  acquitted,  and 
that  Alys  will  turn  to  him  again.  Is  that  possible  ?  If  I 
thought  it  were,  I  would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  get  the 
fellow  condemned.     How  about  that  knife,  I  wonder  ? " 

And  his  mind  turned  once  more  towards  the  vision  of 
Zadock  with  a  ghastly  grin  upon  his  face,  and  a  gleaming, 
murderous-looking  knife  within  his  hand. 

He  had  a  private  interview  with  a  solicitor  in  Crossbury 
before  he  went  back  to  London,  and  congratulated  himself 
on  having  given  that  gentleman  a  perfectly  novel  idea. 

Alys  wept  a  good  deal  when  Lisbeth  told  her  in  a  few 
succinct  words  what  she  thought  of  Edmund's  proposition; 
but  she  yielded,  on  condition  that  she  should  be  married  as 
soon  after  the  trial  as  possible,  and  that  Lisbeth  would  not 
make  any  active  opposition  to  her  choice.  Also,  that  Ed- 
mund should  come  back  before  the  trial  took  place,  and  be 
present  in  Court  while  she  gave  her  evidence. 

The  case  had  excited  great  interest  in  the  county;  for, 
although  Frank  was  not  personally  well  known  or  very 
popular,  he  belonged  to  an  old'  family,  and  his  mother  had 
always  been  liked  and  respected.  Lord  Raynflete  himself, 
whose  secretary  he  was  to  have  been,  came  forward  to  assure 
him  that  the  post  would  still  be  open  to  him  as  soon  as  he 
was  free  to  take  it:  and  many  other  gentlemen  testified  their 
belief  in  his  innocence.  Unfortunately  for  Frank,  there 
was  a  strong  feeling  against  him  in  the  town  from  which 
the  jurors  were  taken:  they  thought  that  it  was  a  case  of  a 


THE  TRIAL.  197 

gentleman  ill-treating  a  poor  man,  chiefly  because  he  was 
poor,  and  they  murmured  to  themselves  that  it  was  time 
these  gentlemen  were  taught  the  lesson  that  they  could  not 
knock  poor  people  about  just  as  they  chose.  The  Court  was 
crowded  on  the  day  when  the  trial  began,  and  a  whole  posse 
of  London  reporters  were  present,  as  well  as  numberless 
artists  to  sketch  the  faces  of  prisoner  and  counsel  and  wit- 
nesses alike. 

Frank  looked  pale  and  worn,  but  was  perfectly  com- 
posed. The  first  part  of  the  evidence  was  given  by  doctors, 
servants  and  labourers,  and  related  to  the  finding  of  the 
body,  medical  details,  and  matters  of  that  sort.  There  wTas 
no  great  interest  felt  until  the  chief  witness  (as  she  was  felt 
to  be)  was  called,  and  Alys  Lorimer  came  into  the  witness- 
box. 

Frank  started  and  turned  eagerly  towards  her  as  she  ap- 
peared. He  was  mistaken  if  he  thought  that  she  would  look 
at  him:  she  did  not  turn  her  eyes  his  way  at  all.  She  was 
looking  very  pale,  but  more  self-possessed  than  her  friends 
had  expected  her  to  be.  Edmund  was  near  her  in  Court; 
and  once,  Frank  noticed  with  a  jealous  pang,  he  smiled  at 
her  encouragingly.  What  right  had  he  to  smile  at  her  ? 
Did  she  not,  after  all,  belong  to  him,  and  to  him  alone  ?  He 
was  soon  to  be  disabused  upon  this  point. 

Alys  told  her  story,  in  answer  to  skilfully  managed 
questions,  with  a  clearness  and  conciseness  which  she  owed 
in  part  to  Edmund,  who  had  taken  care  to  drill  her  a  little 
as  to  her  manner  of  speech.  She  did  not  show  any  feeling 
or  prepossession  either  way,  until  it  came  to  the  cross- 
examination  ;  and  then  a  certain  bias  gradually  revealed 
itself. 

"  Was  the  prisoner  merely  defending  himself  ? "  she  was 
asked.  "I  mean"— as  Alys  looked  perplexed— u was  he 
warding  off  blows,  or  returning  them  ? " 

"  He  was  returning  them,"  said  Alys,  readily. 

"  Did  you  see  a  knife  in  his  hand  ? " 

"  I  saw  a  knife— I  don't  know  whether  it  was  his  or  not." 

"  Was  it  in  Zadock  Verrall's  hand,  do  you  think  ? " 


198  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  It  might  have  been." 

"  You  are  not  sure  ? " 

uNo,  I  am  not  sure." 

"  It  might " — insinuatingly — "  have  been  in  the  prisoner's 
hand  ? " 

"I  think" — she  spoke  faintly — "it  might." 

Frank  turned  and  looked  at  her.  There  was  agony  in 
his  eyes.  Oh,  surely  she  knew  that  he  had  never  used  a 
knife — that  it  was  Zadock  who  had  rushed  forward  with 
it  in  his  hand!  Was  it  possible  that  she  should  not 
know  ? 

"  Was  it  your  impression  that  the  prisoner  had  lost  his 
temper  ? " 

"I  don't  know — I  think  so.  Perhaps  he  could  not  help 
it,"  said  Alys,  naively. 

"  Did  it  not  look  so  to  you  ? "  asked  the  lawyer  signifi- 
cantly. He  knew  pretty  well  the  answer  that  he  would 
provoke.  Even  yet  it  was  a  subject  over  which  Alys  in- 
variably lost  her  self-control. 

tf  Oh,  it  was  terrible !  "  she  cried,  forgetting  the  listeners, 
forgetting  the  Court,  forgetting  Frank  himself.  "I  never 
saw  anything  so  dreadful  before.  I  thought  they  would 
both  be  killed." 

"But  you  do  not  think  that  the  prisoner — Mr.  Moor — is 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  unnecessarily  commit  violence, 
I  suppose  ? "  said  the  counsel,  smoothly. 

Dead  silence.  Alys  hung  her  head.  Some  one  inter- 
posed, and  the  question  was  not  pressed.  It  was  observed 
that  Frank  Moor  suddenly  turned  very  pale. 

"  Look  at  the  prisoner.  You  were  walking  by  the  tarn 
with  him,  you  say  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  eyes  met  for  the  first  time  since  the  lovers  had  kissed 
each  other  on  the  bank  above  the  tarn.  There  was  heart- 
broken despair  in  Frank's  expression :  there  was  fear  and 
repugnance  in  every  line  of  Alys's  face. 

"  You  were  engaged  to  him  then  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  suppose  so." 


THE  TRIAL.  I99 

"  You  are  engaged  to  him  now  ? " 
"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ! " 

"  I  think  that  is  all  I  need  ask  you,  Miss  Lorimer,"  said 
the  lawyer,  slipping  back  into  his  seat  with  a  smile.  Her 
repudiation  of  an  engagement  had  been  the  most  damaging 
thing  to  Frank  that  he  could  have  desired ;  and  as  he  quite 
persuaded  himself  of  Frank's  guilty  motives  and  desire  to  get 
rid  of  Zadock,  he  was  rather  pleased  with  himself  for  having 
brought  her  to  this  admission. 

Later  in  the  day  Lisbeth  Verrall  was  called — chiefly  as  a 
matter  of  form,  and  to  give  evidence  about  the  finding  of 
Zadock's  body,  and  the  time  at  which  Frank  and  Alys 
started  together  from  Quest.  She  was  questioned  about  the 
mysterious  knife  which  had  been  found  in  Zadock's  side ; 
but  she  knew  nothing  of  it.  Perhaps  only  Edmund 
Creighton  could  have  actually  declared  with  certainty  that 
that  knife  had  been  in  Zadock's  possession  some  days  before 
his  death.  And  Edmund  Creighton  sat  quietly  in  the  Court 
and  held  his  tongue. 

"You  have  known  the  prisoner  a  long  time,  I  believe  ?" 
some  one  was  saying  to  Lisbeth. 

"  Almost  all  my  life." 

"  You  were  on  friendly  terms  with  him  ? " 

"  I  was.  We  have  always  been  proud  of  the  friendship 
of  the  Moors  of  Moor  End." 

There  was  a  ring  in  Lisbeth's  voice  which  made  every- 
body look  up.  This  was  no  shrinking,  frightened  witness, 
like  Alys  Lorimer:  this  was  a  woman  who  positively  wanted 
to  have  her  say. 

"  Was  the  prisoner  on  friendly  terms  with  Zadock  Ver- 
rall?" 

u  Yes,  generally.     He  was  very  kind  to  him." 

"  But  lately,  that  was  not  so,  was  it  ? " 

"  Mr.  Moor  was  always  kind  to  Zadock :  but  lately  Zadock 
took  a  dislike  to  him." 

"  Now,  what  was  that  for  ? " 

"He  took  fancies  sometimes." 

"  And  what  was  this  particular  fancy  ? " 


200  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Lisbetli  set  her  teeth.  "  He  thought  I  was  vexed  at  see- 
ing Mr.  Moor  and  my  sister  so  much  together." 

"  And  you  were  vexed — perhaps." 

"Yes — I  thought  it  unsuitable." 

"  You  were  not  vexed  on  your  own  account  ?  " 

Lisbeth  looked  annoyed.  "I  do  not  understand  you," 
she  said,  simply. 

"  Is  it  not  a  fact  that  Mr.  Moor  once  paid  some  attention 
to  yourself  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lisbeth,  quietly,  "  that  is  a  fact." 

"  Perhaps  you — unintentionally — suggested  to  your — 
your  cousin — no,  uncle,  was  it  not  ? — that  he  should  punish 
Mr.  Moor  for  his  unfaithfulness  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  decision.  "  I  had  too 
great  a  regard  for  Mr.  Moor  to  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  A  regard  ?     An  affection,  in  fact  ? " 

There  was  a  breathless  stillness  in  the  Court  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  while  Lisbeth  hesitated.  Then  she  lifted  up 
her  face,  with  a  light  upon  it  such  as  few  had  ever  seen 
before. 

"  I  had  a  great  affection  for  Mr.  Moor,  and  I  have  it  still," 
she  said.  "  I  believe  him  to  be  one  of  the  gentlest  and  best 
men  that  ever  trod  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  that  he  would 
have  willingly  died  to  save  me  or  mine  from  injury." 

They  did  not  ask  Lisbeth  any  more  questions.  She  looked 
at  Frank  before  he  left  the  box,  and  her  eyes  were  brimming 
with  love  that  knew  no  bounds. 

"  That  first  girl  did  her  best  to  hang  him,"  said  one  re- 
porter to  another.  "But  the  second  one  has  turned  the 
scale." 

"  Has  she  ? "  said  his  friend.  "  They  can't  hang  for  man- 
slaughter, of  course.  But  she  won't  get  him  off  alto- 
gether." 

"No;  but  there'll  be  a  light  sentence,"  said  the  first. 

Was  it  light  ?  Lisbeth  did  not  think  so,  when  she  heard 
what  the  judge  and  jury  had  to  say. 

"Guilty  of  manslaughter,  but  recommended  to  mercy," 
rang  in  her  ears  for  days. 


HIS  WIFE.  201 

Sentence:   two  years'  imprisonment,  with,  hard  labour. 
To  Francis  Moor  it  seemed  worse  than  death. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HIS  WIFE. 

Alys,  shrinking  and  cowering  in  the  carriage  which  con- 
veyed her  and  Lisbeth  back  to  Quest  from  tne  Crosthwaite 
Station  after  the  trial,  would  willingly  have  been  anywhere 
else.  In  the  railway  compartment  she  had  been  supported 
by  Edmund's  presence,  but  Edmund  had  taken  leave  of  them 
at  the  station,  and  she  was  obliged  to  drive  up  to  Quest  with 
her  stepsister.  Lisbeth  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  they 
left  the  Court.  Alys  had  turned  faint,  and  then  become 
hysterical,  and  Lisbeth  had  tended  her  as  carefully  and 
gently  as  possible ;  but  she  had  not  said  a  word,  and  her  face 
had  been  curiously  white  and  set.  She  had  not  heard  Alys's 
evidence  given,  but  she  knew  from  others  of  its  general  tenor, 
and  she  did  not  feel  tenderly  towards  the  girl. 

She  was  herself  too  reticent  and  self-contained  to  see  that 
her  silence  might  be  the  severest  condemnation.  She  was 
almost  startled  when  Alys  suddenly  touched  her  knee  with 
a  shaking  hand,  and  cried  out— 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,  do  speak  to  me ! " 

Lisbeth  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "I  have  nothing  to 
say,"  she  answered,  hardly  knowing  the  coldness  of  her  tone. 

"  You  are  angry  with  me.  .  .  .  Yet  what  could  I  do  ? 
...  I  could  not  say  anything  but  the  truth— as  I  knew 
it " 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  And  yet,"  said  Lisbeth,  turning 
away  her  face,  "no  woman  would  have  spoken  as  you  did, 
if  she  had  loved  a  man." 

"  I  don't  love  him,"  said  Alys,  quivering.     "  I  can't ! " 

Lisbeth  said  nothing.  It  was  difficult  to  speak  while  the 
carriage  was  passing  along  the  stony  road,  and  even  more 


202  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

difficult  to  know  what  to  say.  She  would  willingly  have 
deferred  the  subject  for  ever.  A  great  gulf  seemed  to  have 
opened  between  herself  and  Alys;  the  sisters  were  separated 
now,  as  neither  distance  nor  prejudice  had  ever  separated 
them  before. 

But  when  they  were  in  the  house,  it  was  Alys,  timid  as 
she  usually  was,  who  reopened  the  conversation.  She  seemed 
to  have  a  feverish  desire  to  make  her  position  clear. 

"  You  blame  me,1'  she  said,  with  sudden  passion,  "  and  I 
don't  see  why." 

"  I  have  not  said  I  blamed  you." 

"  You  look  it.     I  feel  it.     You  are  not  kind  to  me." 

uOh,  what  does  it  matter,"  cried  Lisbeth,  desolately, 
"  whether  I  am  kind  or  not  ?  If  you  have  done  what  you 
think  right,  the  matter  is  over  for  you.  I  can  only  think 
of  him — alone  and  miserable,  and  knowing  that  you  do  not 
care " 

She  stopped  short,  seated  herself,  and  rested  her  face  on 
her  hands,  her  elbows  on  her  knees.  Alys  watched  her  with 
stupefaction;  it  was  seldom  that  Lisbeth  was  seen  to  cry,  but 
she  was  crying  now. 

She  drew  closer  to  her  sister,  and  finally  knelt  down  be- 
side her,  the  tears  flowing  over  her  pale  cheeks  too. 

u  You  loved  him,"  she  said  at  last,  very  softly. 

"  I  love  him  still.     I  do  not  change." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  Alys  moaned.  "  I  wish — I  wish  I 
did  not  change.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  loved  him  once — but 
now " 

"  You  never  loved  him,"  said  Lisbeth,  sternly,  lifting  a 
tear-stained  face  from  her  hands.  "  Never !  never !  If  you 
had  loved  him  at  all,  you  would  not  have  forsaken  him  in 
the  time  of  his  sorrow." 

Alys  shrank  away.  "  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  very  sorry — 
very  sorry  for  him,  but  I  cannot  care  for  him  in  the  way  I 
used  to  do.  It  is  all  so  dreadful— so  different !  He  is  not 
the  same  to  me. " 

Lisbeth  gazed  at  her  with  searching,  uncomprehending 
eyes.     She  could  not  understand  Alys's  nature :  its  want  of 


HIS  WIFE.  203 

depth  was  more  bewildering  to  her  than  any  other  mani- 
festation could  have  been.  For  Frank's  sake,  she  even  con- 
descended to  argue,  to  implore. 

"  But  don't  you  see,"  she  said,  "  that  it  was  an  accident, 
such  as  might  have  happened  to  any  man  ?  In  the  eye  of 
the  law  he  may  seem  guilty,  but  we  know  that  he  is  not 
guilty  in  the  eye  of  God !  Is  that  nothing  ?  I  thought  it 
was  for  us  who  loved  him  to  uphold  him,  and  show  our  trust 
in  him  before  the  whole  world.  Oh,  it  is  very  hard  on  him 
if  those  he  loves  best  do  not  take  him  for  what  he  is,  and  not 
for  what  he  seems  to  the  outside  world." 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  said  Alys,  with  a  kind  of  doggedness 
which  seemed  incongruous  with  her  gentle  face  and  fragile 
form.  "  I  cannot  help  it.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  forget 
how  I  saw  him  struggling  with  Zadock — lifting  his  hand  to 
strike  him — pushing  him  backward  into  the  tarn.  You  pro- 
fessed to  love  Zadock.  I  cannot  understand  how  you  defend 
his — murderer." 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Frank  never  had  a  mur- 
derous thought,"  said  Lisbeth,  bitterly.  "  But  it  is  no  use 
talking — you  do  not  love  him — you  never  loved  him,  and  I 
should  be  glad  of  that  if  it  were  not  for  his  pain ;  but  do 
you  never  think  how  he  must  suffer — how  he  must  be  suffer- 
ing now  ? " 

Alys  uttered  a  little  cry,  and  hid  her  face.  "  I  know," 
she  said,  "  and  I  can't  help  it.  I  wish  I  could.  If  I  could 
love  him,  I  would.  But  I  can't — indeed,  I  can't."  And  she 
shuddered  and  cried  like  a  frightened  child. 

Lisbeth  looked  at  her  and  drew  a  long  breath.  Then  she 
seemed  to  give  up  the  contest.  Her  face  changed  and  soft- 
ened, while  it  retained  its  expression  of  unutterable  sadness, 
and,  after  a  pause,  she  touched  Alys's  fair  head  with  her 
hand,  and  said,  mournfully,  but  not  unkindly — 

"  I  see — it  is  no  use  talking  about  it.  We  are  different 
— you  and  I.  He  must  forget  you,  and  you  must  forget 
him." 

"  I  must  go  away,"  said  Alys,  looking  up  eagerly.  "  You 
won't  think  it  unkind  of  me  if  I  go  away,  Lisbeth  ?  " 


204  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  No ;  it  would  be  best.     But  where  will  you  go  ? " 

"I  don't  kuow — I  don't  care.  Anywhere— away  from 
here:  out  of  sight  of  those  dreadful  hills." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  Lisbeth's  deep-seated  sorrow,  the 
slighting  reference  to  her  beloved  hills  hurt  and  vexed  her 
a  little.  To  her  mind,  there  was  nothing  so  beautiful  in  all 
the  world  as  the  bare  hill-sides  which  she  looked  on  every 
day.  But  Alys,  as  she  had  said,  was  "  different " ;  and  Lis- 
beth,  forbearingly,  made  no  reply. 

They  did  not  continue  the  conversation.  Alys  was  worn 
out  and  went  to  bed;  Lisbeth  sat  up  half  the  night,  with 
hands  clasped  tightly  before  her  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
fire,  trying  to  read  the  riddle  of  her  life  aright,  and — an 
even  more  difficult  task — the  riddle  of  other  lives  besides 
her  own.  She  gave  it  up  at  last  as  an  impossible  proceed- 
ing; but  even  when  she  had  lain  down  in  her  bed,  she  lay 
awake,  her  eyes  wide  open,  her  imagination  busy  in  the 
darkness  with  pictures  of  Frank  in  his  lonely  cell,  of  Alys 
and  herself  living  side  by  side,  but  divided  for  ever  in  heart 
and  mind  by  the  love  of  one,  the  hatred  of  the  other.  Life 
seemed  dreary  to  Lisbeth  in  those  dark  midnight  hours. 

She  was  not  surprised  to  hear  next  morning  that  Mr. 
Creighton  had  called  to  see  Miss  Lorimer.  It  was  only 
natural  that  Alys  should  turn  in  her  distress  to  old  friends. 
Yet,  as  she  went  about  her  work,  she  was  conscious  of 
a  shrinking  dread  of  the  things  that  she  fancied  Alys 
must  be  saying  to  Mr.  Creighton  about  Frank.  It  seemed 
to  her  as  though  she  knew — although  she  could  not  hear 
with  her  bodily  ears — that  they  were  speaking  of  him  in 
ways  that  it  hurt  her  to  think  of,  hurt  her  to  suspect. 

She  was  probably  right.  Neither  Alys  nor  Edmund  had 
much  conception  of  the  cruelty  of  their  own  judgment,  nor 
of  the  coldness  of  their  own  hearts.  Edmund  prided  him- 
self on  his  clear  sense  of  justice:  Alys  on  her  sensitive 
nature,  on  her  fastidious  delicacy  and  refinement.  And,  of 
course,  their  conclusions  were  not  such  as  would  have 
soothed  or  pleased  the  loyal,  loving,  steadfast  woman  who 
reigned  as  mistress  of  Quest. 


HIS  WIFE.  205 

Edmund  went  forward  eagerly  to  meet  Alys,  and  bowed 
over  her  hand  with  almost  exaggerated  respect.  She  was 
very  pale,  very  subdued— to  his  mind,  more  beautiful,  more 
interesting  than  ever.  Her  eyes  looked  at  him  pathetically : 
he  felt  a  thrill  of  increased  affection,  of  renewed  fervour,  as 
he  met  their  glance.  He  led  her  to  her  seat,  and  arranged 
the  cushions  at  her  back  as  deferentially  as  if  she  had  been 
a  princess.  And  yet,  all  the  time  he  was  conscious  of  acting 
King  Cophetua  to  the  beggar  maid ! 

uYou  must  be  tired:  you  must  be  worn  out,"  he  said, 
gently.  "I  am  almost  surprised  to  find  you  downstairs 
at  all" 

"  I  could  not  rest.    And  I  thought— I  hoped— to  see  you." 

"  Ah,  I  am  glad  that  you  think  of  me  as  a  friend." 

"  If  I  had  not  you,  I  do  not  know  what  other  I  should 
have,"  said  Alys,  the  tears  filling  her  blue  eyes. 

"Your  stepsister,"  he  began,  a  little  dubiously;  but  Alys 
interrupted  him  at  once. 

"  She  is  angry  with  me,  vexed,  pained,  disappointed.  We 
can  never  be  friends  again." 

Edmund  looked  at  her  keenly.  "  You  do  not  mean,"  he 
said,  as  if  he  could  not  believe  his  ears,  "  that  she  wants  you 
to  think  yourself  still  bound  to  that  man  !  " 

u  Indeed  she  does,"  said  Alys,  covering  her  face.  "  She 
thinks  I  am  false,  fickle,  everything  that  is  base  and  mean. 
And  I  cannot  help  it— indeed,  I  cannot.  I  would  have  been 
true  to  him  if  I  could !  " 

"  Of  course,  but  the  thing  has  become  impossible,"  said 
Edmund,  in  his  cool,  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  You  could  not 
care  any  longer  for  a  man  who  behaved  so  brutally  to 
another,  and  who  has  just  narrowly  escaped  hanging !  It 
is  absurd  to  think  of  such  a  thing! " 

u  You  really  think  so,  Edmund  ?  You  don't  call  me 
cowardly  and  false,  do  you  ?  " 

"  What  a  question,  Alys !     It  is  a  sheer  impossibility  for 
a  good,  sweet,  gentle  woman  like  yourself  to  love  a  man 
who  has  proved  himself  such  a  ruffian.     And  a  convict, 
too !    Would  you  like  to  be  a  convict's  wife,  I  wonder  ?  " 
14 


206  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  A  convict's  wife !  A  convict !  Oh,  Edmund,  how  ter- 
rible!" 

"You  should  be  thankful  that  you  found  out  that  man's 
character  before  it  was  too  late.  Sux^pose  that  all  this  had 
happened  after  you  married  him." 

Alys  shrank  back ;  there  was  a  look  of  positive  horror 
upon  her  face. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  my  duty  then  to  be  true 
to  him,"  she  said,  faintly. 

"  But  it  is  not  your  duty  now.  Courage,  Alys !  Your 
duty  is  to  free  yourself  determinedly  from  any  shadow  of  a 
bond  to  that  wretched  man  in  gaol." 

"  I  wish  I  could !     I  don't  know  how." 

"  Why  ?    What  binds  you  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alys,  in  a  tone  of  deep  distress. 
"  But  Lisbeth— Lisbeth " 

She  got  no  further,  and  Edmund  waxed  impatient,  or 
thought  it  well  to  seem  so. 

"Lisbeth!  Lisbeth  indeed!  My  dear  Alys,  let  me  tell 
you  this :  if  your  sister  reproaches  you  for  not  being  true  to 
him,  as  I  suppose  she  calls  it,  she  does  so  only  because  she 
wishes  herself  in  your  place." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Alys,  her  eyes  growing- 
large  with  surprise. 

"  You  did  not  hear  her  give  her  evidence  at  the  trial.  I 
did.  It  was  as  plain  as  possible  that  she  was  in  love  with 
him." 

"  In  love  with  Francis  Moor  ?     Oh,  Edmund,  no !  " 

"  Oh,  Alys,  yes !  She  almost  said  so.  She  did  say  she 
loved  him— is  it  not  much  the  same  thing  ?  and  she  said  it 
in  such  a  way  that  no  doubt  was  left  on  other  people's  minds 
as  to  what  she  meant.  I  heard  it  discussed  last  night, 
wherever  I  went,  with  considerable  freedom ;  it  is  common 
talk." 

"  But  he— he  was  not  in  love  with  her." 

"  I  have  been  making  inquiries,  Alys,  and  I  find  that  on 
all  hands  it  is  believed  that  he  was— or  professed  to  be— in 
love  with  her  long  before  you  came  upon  the  scene.     How 


HIS  WIFE.  207 

far  the  affair  went  is  not  exactly  known  to  the  world ;  but  it 
seems  pretty  certain  that  he  would  never  have  married  her." 

"  Did  he— care — for  her  ?  " 

The  words  came  out  tremblingly:  it  almost  seemed  as 
though  the  girl's  jealousy  had  been  aroused  and  her  dying 
love  revived.  Edmund  hastened  to  put  the  matter  in  the 
light  which  he  knew  would  seem  worst  to  her. 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  cared  particularly.  He  is  the  sort  of 
man  that  must  always  be  making  love.  You  were  only  one 
of  many}  I  am  afraid,  dear.  There  were  others  besides  Miss 
Verrall." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Alys,  with  a  little  cry  of  pain,  and  then  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  lay  back  on  her  chair, 
while  Edmund  Creighton  watched  the  tears  trickle  from  be- 
tween her  slender  fingers,  and  felt  no  pang  of  compunction 
at  the  sight. 

When  she  had  wept  for  some  few  minutes,  however,  he 
thought  it  time  to  interfere. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  he  said,  softly,  "  to  forget  the 
existence  of  that  wretched  man  altogether  ?  He  was  always 
utterly  unworthy  of  you,  and  now  you  know  it !  I  would 
never  think  of  him  again ! " 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  remember  him,"  murmured  Alys, 
"  so  long  as  I  stay  here." 

Edmund's  eye  flashed.  He  drew  nearer,  and  put  his 
hand  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"  Don't  stay  here,  then." 

"  I  have  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,  Alys.  My  home  is  ready  for  you. 
My  heart  is  ready.  You  have  only  to  fly  there,  and  you  will 
be  at  rest,  you  poor  little  tired  bird ! " 

He  drew  her  hand  into  his,  and  fondled  it.  She  sub- 
mitted uncomplainingly,  with  a  dawning  look  of  quietness 
upon  her  face. 

"Alys,"  he  said,  "Alys— my  darling— you  will  come  with 
me?" 

His  words  seemed  to  break  the  spell  that  enfolded  her. 
She  drew  her  hand  away,  and  hid  her  face  again. 


208  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Oh,  I  can't!  I  can't!  It  is  so  soon!  What  would  Lis- 
beth  say  ? " 

And  then  Edmund  knew  that  his  cause  was  as  good  as 
won. 

Kneeling  down  beside  her,  and  taking  her  hand  once 
more  in  his  own,  he  used  all  the  powers  of  his  practised 
speech  to  persuade  her  that  her  best  course  was  to  give  her- 
self to  him,  to  marry  him  at  once.  What  Lisbeth  thought 
or  said  mattered  very  little — would  matter  not  at  all  when 
once  Alys  was  his  wife. 

"And  otherwise,"  he  said,  "  what  will  become  of  you,  my 
darling  ?  I  cannot  go  away  and  leave  you  to  bear  all  the 
cold  and  discomfort  of  the  year.  You  will  have  dark  looks 
from  your  step-sister."  Alys  tried  to  contradict  this  state- 
ment, but  he  would  not  hear.  u  No  one  will  be  kind  and 
loving  to  you:  you  will  have  a  drearier  time  than  I  can  even 
bear  to  picture.  Don't  give  yourself  that  unnecessary  suf- 
fering, sweet  one:  promise  that  you  will  be  mine,  and  I 
shall  be  content." 

And  so  at  last  she  promised,  as  he  had  known  for  some 
time  that  she  would. 

uBut  it  cannot  be  at  once,"  she  protested,  after  a  time. 

"  I  do  not  see  any  reason  why  it  should  not  be  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  Edmund !    It  would  not  look  well." 

"  It  would  look  as  well  as  it  possibly  could,"  Edmund 
averred,  cheerfully.  "  It  would  be  a  capital  answer  to  the 
people  who  are  pitying  you  now,  Alys,  for  your  position. 
There  are  people,  dear,  who  pity  you — yes,  pity  you,  with 
the  pity  that  is  akin  to  scorn,  and  I  want  you  to  show  these 
people  how  utterly  they  are  mistaken.  When  they  hear 
that  you  have  married  me,  instead  of  breaking  your  heart 
for  a  man  who  was  utterly  unworthy  of  you,  they  will  re- 
spect, not  pity,  you.  And  I  want  my  wife  to  hold  her  own 
against  the  world." 

But  on  this  point  Alys  could  not  be  quite  convinced.  All 
that  she  would  do  was  to  promise  that  she  would  become  his 
wife  before  the  summer  was  over ;  but  she  declared  that  she 
could  not  yet  say  when.    He  forebore  to  press  her,  for  he  saw 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  209 

that  he  had  gone  far  enough ;  and  he  believed  that  she  should 
ultimately  have  her  way. 

When  he  had  gone  back  to  the  inn,  and  Lisbeth  came 
into  the  room  with  the  dainty  lunch  which  she  had  prepared 
with  her  own  hands  for  Alys,  she  was  amazed  to  find  the 
girl  flushed,  excited,  with  shining  eyes,  and  a  curious  look 
of  repressed  triumph  and  determination  upon  her  face. 

"  You  have  talked  too  much.  I  thought  that  Mr.  Creigh- 
ton  was  here  a  long  time,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  motherly 
anxiety. 

"  Oh  do,  I  am  not  tired.     It  has  done  me  good." 

"  Did  he  bring  any  news  ?" 

"News?    No,  none." 

u  I  though,  perhaps,  he  had  something  special  to  say — he 
stayed  so  long." 

"  He  had  something  special  to  say,"  Alys  answered,  al- 
most defiantly.  ll  I  may  as  well  tell  you  now  as  later :  he 
came  to  ask  me  to  be  his  wife." 

Lisbeth  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "  What  did  you  say  ? " 
she  asked,  in  a  choking  voice. 

"I  told  him  that  I  would— before  the  summer  was  out." 

Then  Lisbeth  threw  up  her  hands,  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
spairing appeal  against  the  hardness  of  her  sister's  tone. 

"May  God  forgive  you,  then,  Alys  Lorimer!  "  she  cried; 
"for  you  will  have  broken  Frank  Moor's  heart." 

"  And  what  is  that  to  me  ? "  said  Alys,  with  a  coldness 
which  perhaps  she  did  not  feel. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"good-bye,  sweetheart." 

One  interview.  One  last  miserable  half-hour  before  the 
prison  wall  closed  round  him  entirely,  and  he  was  practic- 
ally lost  to  life  and  hope  for  a  space  of  weary  months  and 
years.     Lisbeth  was  too  unhappy  to  take  comfort  even  from 


210  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

the  thought  that  she  was  once  more  in  the  presence  of  the 
man  she  loved. 

He  was  haggard  and  pale ;  but  he  looked  at  her  with  a 
brave  smile,  and  thanked  her  for  her  visit. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come,"  he  said.  "  I  hardly  ex- 
pected it." 

"  You  did  not  expect  that  I  should  desert  you  in  your 
trouble,  did  you  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  don't  know — people  are  so  different,"  he  said,  hesitat- 
ingly.    u  My  mother  has  not  given  me  up — but " 

He  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  Lisbeth  knew  that  he  thought 
of  Alys. 

"Tell  me  of  her"  he  broke  out  impetuously.  "Is  she 
well  ? " 

uYes." 

"  All  this  has  been  a  great  strain  on  her,  no  doubt.  She 
is  so  delicate.     Has  she  been  ill  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Why  do  you  answer  in  monosyllables,  Lisbeth  ?  "What 
is  the  matter  ?    What  is  wrong  ? " 

*'  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  say  that  anything  is  exactly 
wrong.     Only — I  suppose  you  know— that  Alys " 

"  She  has  given  me  up.  I  knew  that,  from  the  way  she 
gave  her  evidence.  There  is  something  else.  Be  quick, 
Lisbeth  ! " 

"  She  wanted  me  to  tell  you,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  trembling 
accents.  "  But  I  said  I  did  not  know  how.  She  never  loved 
you,  Frank,  or  she  would  not  have  changed  so  completely — 
have  promised  another  so  soon " 

Frank's  face  suddenly  grew  white.  "  Already  ?  She  has 
promised  to  marry  another  man  ? " 

"Yes.     Mr.  Creighton." 

"Ah!"  He  let  his  face  fall  upon  his  hands,  and  re- 
mained silent  for  a  little  time:  when  he  looked  up  again, 
it  was  grey  with  a  dull  despair. 

"It  does  seem  almost  impossible,  does  it  not?"  he  said, 
with  a  strange  low  laugh,  which  was  almost  a  sob,  and 
brought  the  tears  into  Lisbeth's  eyes.     "  I  can  hardly  be- 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  211 

lieve  it.  Perhaps  she  does  not  know  her  own  mind — per- 
haps she  will  change  again." 

"  I  do  not  think  so." 

He  turned  his  face  away,  and  sat  very  still.  Lisbeth 
reached  out  her  hand,  and  laid  it  on  his  arm  in  token  of 
sympathy. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  by  and  by,  in  a  tone  that  was 
barely  audible.  "  Yon  are  very  good  to  me,  Lisbeth.  I 
seem  to  have  lost  all  feeling  for  myself  just  now:  I  am  nei- 
ther glad  nor  sorry  for  anything  that  happens." 

"That  will  pass  off." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  anxious  for  it  to  pass  off.  It  will  be 
a  wretched  time  for  me,  I  suppose,  when  it  does.  Two 
years ! " 

"  Yon  will  remember,"  said  Lisbeth,  quietly,  "  that  there 
are  friends  waiting  to  welcome  you  when  you  come  out  ? 
You  will  not  forget  us  ? " 

He  looked  at  her,  and  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two. 
"My  life  in  England  will  be  ended  when  I  come  out  again," 
he  said. 

"  Only  to  begin  somewhere  else." 

"  Yes— some  where  else."  There  was  a  suggestiveness  in 
the  tone  that  made  Lisbeth's  blood  run  cold. 

"  Frank,  promise  me  that  you  will  come  back  to  your 
mother,  and  once,  at  least,  to  Quest." 

He  hesitated :  she  saw  that  he  had  some  difficulty  in  giv- 
ing her  his  word.  All  the  more  earnestly  she  pleaded  for  it. 
A  promise  of  that  kind  might  make  a  great  difference  to  him 
when  he  had  to  face  the  world  once  more. 

"I  cannot  refuse  you  anything,"  he  said  to  her  at  last,  in 
a  saddened  tone.  "  Yes,  Lisbeth,  I  promise.  I  will  come 
back — once,  at  any  rate,  to  Quest. " 

Then  there  was  a  silence,  during  which  time  he  looked 
absently  at  the  wall,  as  if  absorbed  in  thought,  and  Lisbeth 
stealthily  coned  every  lineament  of  the  worn,  melancholy 
face,  as  if  she  wanted  to  know  it  thoroughly  by  heart. 

"  I  wanted  to  thank  you,"  he  said,  when  the  silence  had 
lasted  a  little  time,  "  for  the  kind  way  in  which  you  spoke  of 


212  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

me  in  court.  I  am  told  that  it  made  a  great  deal  of  differ- 
ence. ...  I  am  much  obliged  to  you." 

Lisbeth's  face  grew  hot.  She  was  under  the  impression 
that  her  words  had  formed  an  unmistakable  confession  of 
love,  such  as  nobody  could  mistake;  and  she  did  not  know 
that  it  had  sounded  to  Frank  only  like  a  tender  and  touch- 
ing acknowledgment  of  past  friendship. 

"I  thought,1'  he  went  on,  "that  you  would  have  given 
me  up — that  you  would  never  say  again  that  we  were 
friends;  but  you  do  not  so  readily  dispose  of  the  old  ties,  do 
you,  Lisbeth  ?  As  my  mother  says,  you,  at  least,  are  true  as 
steel." 

"  Does  Lady  Adela  say  that  ?  " 

"  Indeed  she  does.  She  will  thank  you  herself  some  day. 
You  know — as  I  do — Lisbeth,  that  I  would  never  have  hurt 
that  poor  fellow  Zadock  if  I  could  have  helped  it !  It  was 
all  a  matter  of  self-defence — although  it  ended  so  un- 
happily." 

"  I  never  blamed  you,  Frank." 

"God  bless  you,  Lisbeth,  for  saying  so." 

Then  their  hands  met  in  a  long,  close  clasp,  and  for  a 
moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Francis  Moor, 
absorbed  in  his  own  sorrow,  in  the  ruin  and  disgrace  of  his 
life,  had  not  hitherto  given  any  great  attention  to  Lisbeth's 
appearance  or  demeanour.  It  suddenly  struck  him  now,  in 
a  vague,  tentative  fashion,  that  her  face  was  different,  that 
her  eyes  looked  as  if  she  had  known  sorrow  too.  There  was 
deep,  passionate,  yearning  pain  in  those  beautiful  dark  eyes 
of  hers — a  pain  that  haunted  him  at  times  long  afterwards 
in  the  silent  hours  of  the  night — but  which  did  not  of  itself 
reveal  to  him  the  love  that  gave  it  birth. 

The  short  visit  was  soon  concluded.  Lisbeth  bade  him 
farewell  with  such  calmness  as  she  had  at  her  command: 
but  in  spite  of  her  dislike  to  tears,  they  fell  over  her  cheeks 
one  by  one  as  she  rose  up  to  go.  Frank  was  less  affected 
than  she  was.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  dull  envy  of  her 
tears.  "  Ah,  you  can  cry,"  he  said.  '"  If  I  were  a  little  less 
miserable  I  almost  think  I  should  cry  too." 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  213 

Somehow  the  words  stopped  Lisbeth's  tears. 

She  went  back  to  Quest,  feeling  that  nobody  in  the  whole 
wide  world  could  be  more  miserable  than  herself. 

She  was  not  in  charity  with  Alys.  There  was  a  sort  of 
bitter  contempt  in  her  mind  for  the  girl  that  could  not  be 
true  to  her  lover  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  She  wished  with 
all  her  heart  and  soul  that  she  had  never  tried  to  find 
her  sister  out,  never  been  kind  to  her,  never  invited  her  to 
Quest. 

Nevertheless,  she  tried  to  be  just  and  generous.  It  was 
plain  that  Alys  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  heroines  are 
made.  Well,  was  it  her  fault  ?  And  was  it  not  better  that 
her  weakness  should  be  discovered  now,  rather  than  in  the 
days  after  marriage,  when  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  Frank 
so  easily  ?  Even  had  the  course  of  her  love  run  pretty 
smooth,  Lisbeth  knew  that  she  would  have  had  a  good  deal 
to  put  up  with  as  Frank's  wife;  and  perhaps  the  trial  would 
have  been  too  much  for  her.  There  would  have  been  the 
difficulty  of  getting  on  with  Lady  Adela,  whose  disappoint- 
ment at  her  son's  choice  could  not  have  been  concealed: 
there  would  be  the  bugbear  of  comparative  poverty;  and 
last,  but  not  least,  there  would  have  been  Frank's  dreamy, 
unpractical,  melancholic  temperament,  which  was  not  of 
the  kind,  perhaps,  to  bring  happiness  to  the  heart  of  a  deli- 
cate and  sensitive  girl.  Lisbeth  acknowledged  all  this  to 
herself,  and  then  sighed.  If  only  the  rupture  had  been 
brought  about  in  a  less  tragic  and  sinister  way  ! 

Looking  out  of  her  window,  she  saw  that  Edmund 
Creighton  had  come  to  the  house  again,  and  was  standing 
at  the  door.  In  a  moment  or  two  she  heard  his  steps  in  the 
passage,  and  knew  that  he  had  joined  Atys  in  the  parlour. 
A  murmur  of  their  voices  penetrated  to  her  ear,  as  she  stood 
in  the  room  above,  and  made  her  heart  swell  with  anger. 
What  business  had  they  to  flaunt  their  love-making  under 
her  very  eyes  ?  They  must  know — x\lys  at  least  must  know 
— how  intolerably  painful  it  was  to  her.  Alys  must  go 
away  from  Quest,  if  this  was  the  way  in  which  she  was 
going  to  behave. 


214  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

Then  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over  her.  Her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  u  God  forgive  me  !  "  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  Why  have  I  grown  so  selfish  ?  Is  my  pain  to  be  the 
first  consideration  in  the  world  ?  She  is  my  sister :  I  must 
do  the  best  I  can  for  her.  Frank  would  not  wish  me  to  be 
unkind.  Oh,  I  have  grown  very  selfish,  very  hard,  in  the 
last  few  weeks;  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  all  my  troubles 
came  from  the  hands  of  those  I  love  best,  of  those  who  are 
nearest  to  me.    'It  is  very  hard  to  bear/' 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  for  a 
little  while,  with  a  sort  of  abandonment  of  herself  to  grief, 
which  had  not  often  occurred  in  Lisbeth's  life.  By  and  by 
she  slid  from  the  chair  to  the  floor,  and  remained,  silent  and 
kneeling,  for  some  time.  She  was  going  through  one  of 
those  crises  in  life  where  the  only  peace  and  safety  and 
strength  lies  in  faith  in  an  Unseen  Guide,  where  the  dark- 
ness and  tumult  on  every  side  would  daunt  and  destroy  if 
the  soul  had  no  vision  of  a  heavenly  light. 

Peace  and  strength  came  to  her  in  some  fashion,  and 
enabled  her  to  confront  Alys  later  in  the  day  with  perfect 
gentleness,  although  of  a  grave  and  regretful  kind.  Alys 
looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  did  not  seem  to  know  how  to 
respond.  Lisbeth's  coldness,  since  her  engagement  to  Mr. 
Creighton,  had  weighed  greatly  upon  the  girl's  spirits. 
Even  Edmund's  attempts  at  encouragement  had  failed  to 
make  her  brave.  By  this  time  she  looked  so  white  and  ill 
that  Lisbeth's  innate  motherliness  leaped  up  like  a  flame. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  gently  on  Alys's 
shoulder,  "you  don't  look  well.  Is  anything  troubling 
you?" 

The  question  hardly  needed  a  reply.  There  was  plenty 
to  trouble  her,  as  Alys  thought;  but  she  accepted  it  as  an 
invitation  to  cast  herself  once  more  into  Lisbeth's  arms,  and 
cry  her  heart  out  on  Lisbeth's  bosom. 

"  Poor  little  lass  !  "  said  Lisbeth,  stroking  the  soft  golden 
hair.  "  Poor,  bonny  little  lass  !  We've  all  been  in  such 
trouble  that  I've  half  forgotten  to  look  after  thee.  What's 
wrong,  dearie  ? " 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  215 

*  "  Oh,  Lisheth,  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to  love 
me  again  ! " 

"  I  shall  always  love  my  little  sister,"  said  Lisbeth,  slow- 
ly, but  fervently,  as  if  she  were  making  a  solemn  vow  of 
faithfulness.  "  I  shall  always  do  my  best  for  her,  and  help 
her  as  far  as  I  can.  What  is  it  now,  Alys  ?  Why  do  you 
seem  so  unhappy  ? " 

a  There  are  a  great  many  reasons,"  said  Alys,  a  little 
confusedly.  Then,  hiding  her  face  again,  she  added:  uMr. 
Creighton  is  going  back  to  London." 

"  I  suppose  he  must  go,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Yes;  but— I  feel  so  lonely.  Nobody  here  cares  for  me. 
And  I  am  afraid." 

"  Afraid  !  What  are  you  afraid  of  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  whose 
eyes  had  grown   sombre,  although  her  voice  was  gentle 

still. 

She  was  prepared  for  any  sort  of  self-blame  and  remorse. 
She  expected  to  hear  that  Quest  was  too  full  of  sad  memo- 
ries, perhaps  that  Alys  had  dreamt  of  Zadock,  and  fancied 
his  ghost  lyiug  in  wait  for  her  at  every  corner.  With  any 
such  dark,  bizarre  freak  of  the  imagination  Lisbeth  would 
have  sympathised.  In  the  long  dark  evenings  she  herself 
had  sometimes  fancied  that  Zadock  "  walked."  She  would 
think  more  highly  of  Alys  if  she  could  believe  that  the  girl 
was  awake  enough  upon  the  spiritual  side  to  feel  these 
things. 

But  Alys's  concern  was  for  matters  material. 

"It  is  so  cold  here,  Lisbeth,"  she  said.  "Edmund  is 
afraid  that  I  shall  be  ill  if  I  stay.  The  winds  are  so  keen ; 
he  says  that  they  are  keen  enough  to  kill  a  delicate  person 
in  the  spring." 

Lisbeth  felt  herself  silenced,  repelled.  After  all  the 
occurrences  of  the  past  few  weeks,  could  Alys  thiok  of 
nothing  but  her  own  health  ?  Perhaps,  however,  she  re- 
flected, this  way  of  expressing  herself  was  a  blind :  she  did 
not  want  to  say  how  painful  the  neighbourhood  of  Quest 
had  become  to  her.  It  was  curious  that  Lisbeth,  who  looked 
so  much  stronger  and  less  sensitive  than  Alys,  should  have 


216  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

the  finer  sense,  the  more  delicate  perception  of  the  two ;  but 
it  was  the  case. 

"  Now,  when  I  have  really  a  chance  of  happiness,"  said 
Alys,  "  it  would  be  terrible  to  lose  it— just  through  an  east 
wind  or  a  long  spell  of  cold  weather." 

"  But  you  could  not  lose  it  in  that  way,  unless  it  were 
the  will  of  God,"  said  Lisbeth,  simply. 

uOh,"  said  Alys,  shrinking  a  little,  "you  do  put  things 
so  strangely,  Lisbeth !  Of  course,  I  mean — speaking  in  the 
ordinary  wTay— humanly  speaking,  as  people  say,  that  it  is  a 
risk  for  me  to  stay— that  is  all.     And  I  feel  afraid." 

Lisbeth  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  looked  at 
Alys  with  earnest,  scrutinising  gentleness.    Then  she  said — 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Creighton  wants  you  to  marry 
him  at  once,  Alys  ?  " 

"No,  not  quite  at  once,"  said  Alys,  colouring;  "but  in 
the  summer  time,  when  he  is  free,  and  we  can  go  away. 
He  wanted  it  to  be  at  once,  Lisbeth ;  but  I  thought  it  seemed 
so  heartless — so  unkind." 

Lisbeth's  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  I  refused  to  let  it  be  so  soon,"  Alys  continued — it  was 
evident  that  she  valued  herself  a  little  on  account  of  the  re- 
fusal— "and  he  is  very  much  distressed  — chiefly,  of  course, 
because  of  my  health,  as  he  says  that  this  place  is  so  much 
too  cold  for  me." 

"  His  mother  will,  perhaps,  invite  you  there  again,"  said 
Lisbeth,  coldly. 

"Oh,  Lisbeth!  I  could  not  go  there,  when  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton behaved  so  unkindly  to  me " 

"  Are  there  any  other  friends  with  whom  you  could  go 
and  stay  ? " 

"  None.  Papa  would  not  let  me  make  friends.  There  is 
only  you,  Lisbeth." 

"And  my  home,"  said  Lisbeth,  gravely,  "  is  at  Quest." 

Alys's  eyes  filled  with  tears  again.  "  I  know,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  depression.  "  I  know.  But  it  is  killing 
me." 

"I  will  ask  the  doctor  to  look  at  you,"  said  Lisbeth, 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  217 

yielding  a  little  at  the  girl's  mournfulness  of  tone.  "  And 
we  will  see  what  he  says.  If  Quest  is  really  too  cold  for 
you " 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,  Edmund  says  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death,'1  cried  Alys,  eagerly. 

"  We  shall  see,"  Lisbeth  answered ;  and  shut  her  lips  so 
tightly  that  Alys  was  not  encouraged  to  say  anything  more. 

Miss  Verrall  was  not  pleased  with  the  part  which  Ed- 
mund Creighton  seemed  to  be  playing  at  present.  So  little 
was  she  pleased  with  it  that  she  resolved  at  last  to  express 
her  displeasure;  and  when  she  had  disposed  of  Alys  in  bed 
that  night— for  Alys  always  went  to  rest  early— she  put  on 
her  long  cloak  and  hood,  took  a  lantern  in  her  hand,  and 
swung  steadily  down  the  dark  road  to  the  hotel  at  Cros- 
thwaite  where  she  knew  that  Edmund  was  staying. 

Mr.  Creighton  was  astonished  and  not  particularly  de- 
lighted to  see  her.  He  was  sitting  in  a  private  parlour,  read- 
ing a  book :  which  was  rather  a  surprise  to  Lisbeth,  who  ex- 
pected to  find  him  playing  billiards,  or  standing  in  the  bar, 
"  like  other  young  men.''  She  had  not  fathomed  the  extent 
of  Edmund's  fastidiousness,  or  of  his  love  for  conventional 
respectability. 

u  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Miss  Verrall  ? "  he  asked,  po- 
litely. 

u  It  is  just  this,"  said  Lisbeth,  refusing  the  offered  seat, 
and  facing  him  with  the  hood  pushed  back  from  her  fine 
head,  and  her  dark  hair  all  blown  about  her  eyes;  "  I  want 
to  know  wThy  you  are  frightening  Alys  about  her  health." 

"  I  am  not  frightening  her,  I  hope,  more  than  is  neces- 
sary.    I  sincerely  want  her  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"  Quest  is  one  of  the  healthiest  places  in  the  world." 

11  But  also  one  of  the  coldest.  Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I 
do  not  think  you  understand  the  delicacy  of  Miss  Lorimer's 
constitution.  She  is  like  an  exotic  plant,  cultivated  in  the 
hot- house,  and  now  thrust  out  into  the  wTintry  cold.  Is  it 
not  likely  that  I  should  be  anxious  for  the  result  ? " 

"  I  can  take  care  of  her,"  said  Lisbeth,  hotly. 

Edmund  bowed,  with  a  little  sarcasm  in  his  smile. 


218  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  do  not  want  her  to  come  to  harm.  I  want  to  do  what 
is  right  for  her,"  said  Lisbeth,  her  composure  failing  a  little. 
"  I  wish  she  would  marry  you  at  once !  Then  you  would 
have  the  responsibility." 

"  One  which  I  should  gladly  adopt,"  he  said,  smoothly. 
"  But  Alys  objects ;  she  seems  to  think  that  you  would  con- 
sider it  unnatural.     So  soon " 

"  I  should  consider  nothing  unnatural  now  that  she  is 
engaged  to  you  at  all,"  said  Lisbeth,  wTho  was  always  plain 
spoken.  "  I  understood  that  her  own  feeling  in  the  matter 
prevented  her — a  very  right  feeling,  too." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  It  is  a  pity  that  her  right  feelings  are 
allowed  to  endanger  her  health,  however,"  said  Mr.  Creigh- 
ton,  a  little  viciously.  The  two  faced  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment with  a  look  of  positive  enmity.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  that  they  had  felt  themselves  foes.  But  Lisbeth  was 
the  first  to  draw  back. 

,k  What  can  I  do  to  prevent  it  ? "  she  said. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hardly  know,"  said  Mr.  Oreighton,  in  his 
politest  tones.  Lisbeth  could  not  help  noticing  that  the 
lines  of  his  face  had  grown  sensibly  harder  and  older  in  the 
last  few  weeks.  The  change  seemed  to  be  intensified,  as  he 
proceeded — "  It  would  be  an  unpardonable  insult,  I  suppose, 
if  I  suggested  that  I  should  be  most  happy  to  bear  all  ex- 
pense if  she  were  sent  to  the  Riviera,  or  even  to  Bourne- 
mouth or  Ventnor,  for  the  rest  of  the  winter." 

"  It  would  be  an  insult,  indeed,  when  she  has  a  sister 
who  is  perfectly  well  able  and  willing  to  do  all  for  her  that 
ought  to  be  done,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  tone  of  deep  indignation 
and  offence. 

Then  the  interview  terminated,  and  each  thought  that  it 
had  been  long  enough.  Lisbeth  walked  rapidly  back  to 
Quest,  and  Edmund  absorbed  himself  once  more  in  his  book. 
But,  although  Lisbeth  was  very  angry  with  him  for  the  sug- 
gestion, yet  it  was  one  that  bore  fruit.  It  was  owing  to  that 
speech,  most  probably,  that,  within  ten  days,  Lisbeth  and 
Alys  were  on  their  way  to  a  six  weeks'  sojourn  in  the  south 
of  France. 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER.     219 
CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER. 

While  Alys  and  Lisbeth  wandered  from  town  to  town 
in  the  sunny  South,  sometimes  enjoying  themselves,  and 
sometimes  only  wondering  why  they  did  not,  Julian  Creigh- 
ton  was  experiencing  all  the  delights  and  all  the  disappoint- 
ments and  fatigues  of  a  first  London  season. 

Her  sisters  were  out  of  the  way.  One  was  married,  and 
gone  abroad :  the  other  refused  to  live  at  home,  as  she  did 
not  get  on  well  with  her  mother.  Mrs.  Creighton  had 
Julian,  therefore,  at  her  command,  to  mould  and  shape  as 
well  as  she  was  able.  Unfortunately,  Julian  did  not  lend 
herself  well  to  being  modelled  on  the  pattern  of  other  peo- 
ple ;  and  if  she  had  not  been  so  very  pretty,  her  mother 
would  have  been  hard  on  her.  As  it  was,  she  was  beautiful 
in  such  a  novel  and  striking  way:  she  was  so  original,  so 
innocently  audacious,  and  yet,  as  everybody  felt,  so  genuine 
and  sincere,  that  she  was  liked  as  much  as  she  was  admired 
— and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

The  Creightons  put  down  to  the  effect  of  her  beauty  the 
fact  that  they  were  at  this  time  much  more  asked  out,  and 
asked  to  better  houses  than  they  had  ever  been  before.  Sev- 
eral people  of  social  importance  took  notice  of  Julian,  as 
they  had  never  noticed  her  sisters.  And  a  certain  Lady 
Maria  Lascelles,  whom  they  had  known  very  slightly,  con- 
stituted herself  a  kind  of  chaperon  to  the  girl,  and  took  her 
out  with  her  to  great  houses  where  Mrs.  Creighton  never 
received  an  invitation  for  herself.  If  that  good  lady  had 
not  been  altogether  delighted  and  flattered  at  her  daughter's 
distinction,  she  would  have  been  angry  to  feel  herself  left 
out;  but  the  maternal  instinct  was  gratified,  and,  although 
Julian  had  once  been  the  best-snubbed  girl  of  the  family, 
she  was  now  the  privileged  favourite,  and  might  do  and  say 
almost  what  she  liked— so  long  as  it  had  no  reference  to  her 
experiences  at  Quest. 


220  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Please  do  not  talk  to  me  of  that  dreadful  place,"  her 
mother  said  to  her.  "  It  was  by  the  merest  chance  that  you 
did  not  see  the  murder  committed,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
who  would  have  invited  you  out  after  an  appearance  of  that 
kind  in  the  witness-box  ? " 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  to  my  advantage  rather 
than  otherwise,"  said  Julian.  "  People  like  sensations,  and 
I  should  have  been  a  heroine.  But,  by-the-by,  mamma,  it 
wasn't  a  murder,  you  know." 

"  If  it  were  not  a  murder— manslaughter  is  only  a  pretty 
name  for  it— I  should  like  to  know  what  Francis  Moor  is  in 
prison  for  ? "  said  her  mother,  frigidly. 

"Alys  had  to  give  evidence,"  Julian  was  beginning, 
rather  unadvisedly ;  but  her  mother  at  once  cut  her  short. 

"  I  would  rather  not  hear  anything  about  Miss  Lorimer. 
I  never  liked  her,  and  now  she  is  quite  out  of  our  set." 

"  But  isn't  Edmund  engaged  to  her,"  said  Julian,  calmly. 

"Certainly  not.  At  least,  if  he  is,  it  is  against  your 
father's  wishes  and  mine." 

"His  house  is  very  pretty,"  said  Julian.  This  was  a 
thrust  in  return  for  her  mother's  attack  on  Alys,  which 
Julian  resented;  for  Mrs.  Creighton  had  never  yet  been 
asked  to  inspect  the  house  which  Edmund  was  furnishing 
for  his  bride.     But  she  showed  no  sign  of  discomfiture. 

"I  have  never  found  time  to  go  over  it,"  she  said. 
"Some  day,  when  we  are  not  busy,  we  might  drive  round 
that  way." 

Julian  smiled.  She  knew  very  well  that  her  mother 
dared  not  enter  the  house  without  an  invitation  from  her 
son.  Edmund  was  the  one  person  of  whom  his  mother  was 
slightly  afraid. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at,  Julian  ? "  Mrs.  Creighton 
asked,  a  moment  later. 

uThe  Academy  catalogue,  mamma." 

"  At  the  index,  apparently.     Interesting  reading !  " 

"  I  was  trying,"  said  Julian,  with  a  little  flush  on  her 
cheek,  "  to  find  the  name  of  an  artist  in  whom  I  am  inter- 
ested." 


MRS.  CREIGIITON'S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER.     221 

"And  who  is  that?" 

"A  Mr.  John  l'Estrange— here  he  is.  Two  pictures 
—ah ! " 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  said  her  mother,  struck  by  the 
tone  of  the  ejaculation. 

"  Nothing."    Julian  blushed,  and  looked  confused. 

"  Nonsense — nothing !  You  said  '  Ah,'  as  if  you  were 
surprised  at  something.  Nothing  is  more  ill-bred  than  un- 
meaning exclamations  of  that  kind." 

"  I  was  only  surprised  at  the  subject  of  the  pictures,"  said 
Julian,  making  a  little  effort  over  herself.  "  They  are  land- 
scapes: one  is  called  'Crosthwaite,' and  the  other  'Below 
the  Tarn.'  I  think  they  must  be  taken  from  places  near 
Quest,"  she  concluded,  demurely. 

Mrs.  Oeighton  gave  herself  an  impatient  shake.  Then 
she  asked  a  question  in  her  driest  tone  — 

"  Does  this  artist  live  at  Quest  ? " 

uOh,  no,  mamma.  He  was  staying  in  the  neighbour- 
hood.    Edmund  knows  him." 

u  Edmund  may  know  a  good  many  people  whom  it  is  not 
fitting  for  you  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Oeighton,  with  decision. 
"  Have  you  seen  this  man  in  London  ? " 

uNo,  mamma." 

"That  is  a  good  thing.  Remember,  Julian,  if  you  do 
meet  him,  that  I  desire  you  not  to  renew  the  acquaintance. 
No  doubt  you  met  all  sorts  of  queer  people  at  that  place  in 
Cumberland,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  con- 
tinue to  know  them  for  ever  afterwards.  Any  sort  of  con- 
nection with  Crosthwaite  is  objectionable  to  me,  after  the 
late  painful  and  disreputable  occurrences  near  Quest." 

"But  Mr.  l'Estrange  had  nothing  to  do  with  Quest, 
mamma." 

'•  If  by  any  chance  you  met  him  and  spoke  to  him,  do 
you  suppose  he  would  not  mention  Quest  ?  Of  course  he 
would;  and  it  might  be  very  awkward.  I  do  not  wish  any 
one  to  know  that  you  ever  stayed  there,  or  have  any  acquaint- 
ance with  Crosthwaite." 

She  spoke  majestically,  as  one  who  is  justified  in  laying 
15 


222  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

down  the  law ;  but  on  receiving  no  answer  she  glanced  up 
and  read  rebellion  in  Julian's  face.  The  girl  was  standing 
by  a  table,  on  which  the  Academy  catalogue  had  been  laid ; 
she  was  looking  at  the  open  page,  and  there  was  a  red  flush 
on  her  face,  a  mutinous  expression  on  her  open  brow. 
Presently  she  looked  up,  pushed  the  book  away,  and  faced 
her  mother  with  her  hands  behind  her,  quite  in  the  old 
school-girlish  way. 

"Mother,"  she  said— and  Julian  said  "mother"  only 
when  she  wanted  to  speak  seriously — "  I  must  tell  you  one 
thing.  I  do  not  think  I  can  promise  to  obey  you.  Mr. 
l'Estrange  was  very  kind  to  me:  he  is  a  great  friend  of 
mine;  and  it  I  see  him  I  shall  most  certainly  speak  to  him." 

"Julian!" 

"  I  am  sorry,  mamma,  but  I  can't  help  it.  He  was  kind 
and  good  to  me ;  indeed,  1  think  he  is  one  of  the  best  men  I 
ever  met;  and  I  cannot  be  ungrateful.  But  I  will  promise 
you  this — that  I  will  not  talk  of  Quest  or  Crosthwaite  so 
that  any  one  shall  overhear  me.  I  will  be  very  careful,  but 
I  will  not  promise  not  to  speak  to  Mr.  l'Estrange." 

"You  were  always  a  wilful,  undutiful  girl,  Julian. 
Well,  I  shall  speak  to  your  father  about  it,  and  perhaps  you 
will  do  what  he  tells  you." 

"I  am  wilful,  I  know,  but  I  don't  think  I  am  undutiful," 
said  Julian,  who  was  always  capable  of  forming  an  inde- 
pendent judgment.  "  And  I  warn  you,  mamma,  that  what 
papa  says  won't  make  a  bit  of  difference." 

"You  are  an  impertinent  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton, 
with  dignity,  but  she  said  no  more;  and  Julian  did  not  be- 
lieve that  she  wTould  speak  to  her  father  at  all. 

Mrs.  Creighton  punished  her  rebellious  daughter,  how- 
ever, in  a  rather  ingenious  manner — by  delaying  her  visit 
to  the  Eoyal  Academy  as  long  as  possible.  Of  course,  it 
could  not  be  put  off  altogether:  it  was  one  of  the  things 
that  had  got  to  be  done,  but  it  was  put  off  long  enough  to 
make  Julian  exceedingly  impatient.  At  last  it  took  place ; 
and  as  soon  as  she  could  the  girl  found  the  pictures  painted 
by  her  friend,  and  sent  (she  believed)  to  the  exhibition  in 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S   YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER.     223 

deference  to  her  own  wishes.  She  felt  a  glow  of  pride  in 
thinking  that  she  could  influence  the  actions  of  a  man  of 
genius  like  Mr.  l'Estrange. 

She  was  quite  sure  he  was  a  man  of  genius.  He  had  im- 
pressed her  with  something  that  she  called  genius,  hut  which 
was  possibly  only  a  kind  of  greatness  of  nature,  such  as 
some  few  men  are  born  with,  and  which  cannot  be  acquired. 
She  was  not  experienced  enough  to  know  this :  she  was  only 
certain  of  the  fact  that  she  admired  him,  and  could  account 
for  her  admiration  in  no  other  way  than  concluding  him  to 
be  a  man  of  uncommon  talent.  But  she  was  a  little  disap- 
pointed by  the  pictures  when  at  last  she  stood  before  them. 
They  were  pleasant,  they  were  even  charming;  but  they 
did  not  strike  the  eye,  and  no  crowd  had  collected  to  admire 
them.  Mrs.  Creighton,  who  noticed,  of  course,  the  name  of 
the  artist,  put  up  her  long-handled  eyeglass  critically. 

"  Well,  Julian,  I  don't  see  that  your  friend's  pictures  are 
so  especially  remarkable.  You  girls  think  all  your  geese 
are  swans."  She  was  quite  restored  to  good  humour  by 
feeling  herself  able  to  make  this  remark,  and  she  gloried  in 
Julian's  crestfallen  air. 

"  Why  do  I  care  ? "  the  girl  said  to  herself,  as  she  fol- 
lowed her  mother  through  the  crowded  rooms.  "What 
does  it  matter  whether  his  pictures  are  less  remarkable  than 
I  thought  they  were  ?  It  was  the  man  I  liked  better  than 
his  work.  I  suppose  one  wonders  a  little  whether  in  one's 
inexperience  one  appraised  the  man  also  more  highly  than 
was  necessary.     I  was  such  a  child ! " 

It  was  not  ten  months  ago;  but  a  subtle  change  had 
passed  over  her  since  then.  She  was  no  longer  a  child,  she 
was  a  woman,  greatly  admired,  and  conscious  of  her  power, 
although  unaffected  by  the  knowledge  of  it.  As  yet  it  did 
not  seem  to  her  possible  that  she  should  take  any  pleasure 
in  knowing  that  men  sighed  for  a  smile  from  her. 

Indeed,  it  was  all  the  other  way  with  Julian.  There  was 
a  young  man  sighing  for  her  at  that  moment,  and  she  did 
not  like  it  at  all.  That  is,  she  did  not  like  him.  And  yet 
he  was  a  most  unexceptionable  suitor:  a  young  baronet  with 


224  TnE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ten  thousand  a  year  and  a  delightful  country  house :  a  man 
who  had  been  '•  a  little  wild,"  but  who  would  (she  was  told) 
make  a  perfect  husband.  Mrs.  Creighton  was  always  throw- 
ing her  into  Sir  Harry  Glossop's  way;  and  Mr.  Creighton 
asked  him  genially  to  dinner.  Even  Edmund  had  a  good 
word  to  say  for  him ;  yet,  to  Julian's  mind,  he  was  woefully 
stupid,  ignorant,  foolish,  and  deficient  in  all  the  arts  that 
lend  grace  and  dignity  to  life.  Five  minutes  talk  with  Sir 
Harry  made  her  yawn  in  his  face,  for  she  had  no  interest  in 
the  things  which  interested  him,  such  as  racing,  shooting, 
hunting,  fishing,  and  the  like;  and  then  her  mother  scolded 
her  for  being  rude,  and  made  her  ashamed  of  herself.  And 
although  Sir  Harry  had  not  yet  k<  spoken,"  his  manner  was 
so  attentive,  his  visits  wTere  so  frequent,  and  his  self-compla- 
cency so  remarkable,  that  Julian  felt  sure  that  he  would 
speak  some  day. 

u  You  are  going  to  the  Kerouels'  to-night,  are  you  not  ? " 
Mrs.  Creighton  asked  of  her  daughter,  as  they  left  the  Acad- 
emy. Her  eyes  were  roving  in  every  direction  over  the 
crowd,  as  though  she  sought  something — or  somebody. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  mamma.  You  know  that,"  said  Julian, 
a  little  crossty. 

"  Did  Lady  Maria  say  that  she  was  going  to  take  a  party  ? 
— shall  you  go  alone  with  her  ? " 

"  She  said  something  about  one  or  two  guests,"  Julian 
answered,  with  reluctance. 

"  Did  she  mention  their  names,  dear  ? "  said  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton, blandly,  but  wishing  that  her  daughter  would  be  a 
little  more  communicative. 

"  She  said  that  Sir  Harry  Glossop  would  be  there.  I  don't 
know  of  any  one  else."     And  Julian  pouted. 

"  Don't  put  on  such  an  ill-tempered  air,"  said  her  mother, 
reprovingly.  u  You  will  enjoy  it  very  much.  And  if  Sir 
Harry  goes  with  you  to  the  ball,  you  will  be  sure  of  one 
partner,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  am  always  sure  of  a  partner,"  said  Julian,  rather  pro- 
vokingly. 

"  Ah,  you  are  a  conceited  child,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton, 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER.     225 

with  great  satisfaction;  and  the  drive  ended  with  mother 
and  daughter  on  terms  of  perfect  amity. 

Julian  was  to  dine  at  Lady  Maria's  house,  and  go  with 
her  to  a  great  ball  afterwards.  She  pretended  not  to  care 
very  much  for  the  prospect,  but  in  reality  she  was  a  little 
excited  by  it.  She  had  never  been  to  quite  so  great  and  dis- 
tinguished a  party  in  her  life  before,  and  she  had  an  ex- 
tremely becoming  new  dress  for  the  occasion.  She  could 
not  help  feeling  pleased  with  her  own  appearance  as  she 
stood  before  her  looking-glass  that  night,  while  her  maid 
clasped  the  shining  pearls  round  her  pretty  white  neck,  and 
Mrs.  Creighton  stood  by  with  a  bouquet  of  white  exotics  in 
her  hand. 

u  I  never  saw  you  look  better,  Julian,"  said  the  mother. 

Privately,  Julian  agreed  with  her.  The  dress  suited  her 
admirably.  It  was  of  some  filmy  white  substance,  draped 
over  white  silk,  and  caught  here  and  there  by  little  trails  of 
small-leaved  ivy,  the  dark  green  hue  of  which  was  peculiarly 
becoming  to  her  complexion.  She  had  chosen  the  ivy  leaves 
very  much  against  her  mother's  wish,  but  the  effect  was 
extremely  good;  and  the  dressmaker  had  brightened  it  by 
introducing  crystal  drops  here  and  there,  as  if  to  represent 
the  dews  of  heaven.  Nobody  knew  that  Julian  had  chosen 
the  ivy  in  subtle  remembrance  of  those  far-off  days  when 
she  sat  beside  the  tarn,  upon  a  mossy  bank,  with  an  ivy- 
grown  ridge  of  broken  earth  behind  her.  She  looked  like  a 
nymph  of  the  woodlands,  with  the  long,  graceful  trails  of 
greenery  upon  her  shining  dress. 

"  This  bouquet  has  just  come,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton. 

"  It  is  very  pretty,  but  not  one  bit  suitable.  This  dress 
wants  a  simple  posy,  not  a  stiff  bouquet  of  hothouse  flowers," 
said  Julian,  scarcely  glancing  at  the  exotics. 

"You  must  take  these:  I  am  afraid  it  will  give  such 
offence  if  you  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Why  ?  who  sent  them  ?  " 

"  Sir  Harry,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Harry!  Well,  it  doesn't  much  matter  whether 
he  is  offended  or  not,  does  it  ?  "  said  Julian,  recklessly.     "  I 


226  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

am  not  going  to  spoil  the  effect  of  my  dress  for  the  sake  of 
his  feelings,  mamma.     I  have  my  own  flowers  here." 

She  produced  a  much  less  elaborate  nosegay,  a  bunch  of 
daffodils  and  ivy,  tied  with  long  white  ribbons,  the  ends  of 
which  were  spangled  like  the  ivy  in  her  dress.  "  There! 
that  is  much  more  appropriate.  I  wanted  to  look  like 
Spring ! " 

"  It  is  not  a  fancy  ball,"  grumbled  Mrs.  Creighton. 
"  You  will  be  called  eccentric,  Julian,  if  you  overdo  your 
simplicity." 

But  Lady  Maria  did  not  agree  with  Mrs.  Creighton.  She 
was  an  old  lady,  and  never  concealed  her  opinion  of  any- 
body's appearance. 

"  Charming,  my  dear,  positively  charming,"  she  said. 
"  You  make  me  think  of  the  country  and  of  all  sorts  of 
happy  things.  Was  the  ivy  your  own  idea  ?  Then  I  say 
that  you  have  a  perfect  genius  for  dress.  Let  us  hope  that 
your  future  station  in  life  "—significantly— "  will  enable  you 
to  gratify  it." 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  it  will,"  said  Julian,  innocently.  "  But 
you  know,  Lady  Maria,  white  silk  is  all  very  well ;  but  what 
I  really  look  nice  in  is  a  linen  frock  and  a  strawr  hat  and 
hobnailed  boots :  you  should  see  me  in  that  costume  if  you 
really  want  to  admire  me." 

She  was  laughed  at  and  called  a  saucy  child;  but  Lady 
Maria  regarded  her  with  approbation,  as  a  young  woman 
who  had  something  to  say  for  herself.  Her  little  grey  eyes 
twinkled  as  she  perceived  Sir  Harry's  open-mouthed  admira- 
tion, but  she  shook  her  head  a  little  when  he  began  to  make 
compliments. 

"That  won't  do,"  she  said  to  herself.  "The  girl  will 
never  marry  a  fool." 

And  she  exerted  herself  a  little  to  keep  Julian  beside  her, 
so  that  she  should  not  fall  a  victim  too  easily  to  the  enam- 
oured baronet. 

The  ball  was  a  brilliant  success,  and  Lady  Maria  was 
pleased  to  find  that  her  young  charge  was  generally  regarded 
as  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room.     She  danced  every  dance, 


JULIAN'S  FRIEND.  227 

and  behaved  beautifully,  returning  to  her  chaperon's  side 
much  oftener  than  is  usually  the  custom  of  modern  young 
ladies.     Lady  Maria  thoroughly  approved  of  her. 

"  Oh ! "  said  Julian,  in  one  of  these  brief  pauses  beside 
Lady  Maria,  "  there's  Mr.  l'Estrange ! " 

kk  And  who  is  Mr.  l'Estrange  ? " 

"  An  artist — a  friend  of  mine — a  tall,  nice-looking  man, 
standing  beside  the  lady  in  pink:  don't  you  see  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  At  least,  I  see  nobody  but  Lord 
Raynnete  in  that  direction :  he's  not  the  man  you  mean  ? " 

u  No,  I  don't  know  him :  it  is  an  artist  whom  I  used  to 
know.     I  did  not  expect  to  see  him  here." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Lady  Maria,  "  there  are  artists  and  art- 
ists, you  see.  Bring  your  friend  to  me  and  introduce  him  if 
you  like." 

She  turned  to  speak  to  a  neighbour;  and  Julian,  with 
glowing  cheeks  and  shiny  eyes,  stood  face  to  face  with  her 
old  friend,  John  l'Estrange. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

JULIAN'S  FRIEND. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again,"  said  Julian.  She  would 
not  deny  herself  the  pleasure  of  saying  so,  in  spite  of  her 
mother's  objections  to  reminiscences  of  Crosthwaite. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  if  I  may  say  so,"  said  the 
man.  He  looked  very  well,  she  thought:  handsomer  than 
she  had  expected ;  well  set-up,  faultlessly  dressed,  with  an 
air  of  ease  and  enjoyment  which  took  her  a  little  aback.  It 
was  her  bewilderment,  perhaps,  that  made  her  say,  with  a 
gancherie  more  approaching  the  manner  of  the  schoolgirl 
whom  he  had  known,  than  the  belle  of  a  London  ball- 
room  

"  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  you  here." 

"  Did  you  not  ?  "  he  said,  looking  a  trifle  amused.     "  But 


228  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

you  are  right :  I  don't  often  frequent  these  big  assemblies. 
Are  you  engaged  for  this  dance  ?  " 

"  I  ivas"  said  Julian  laughing,  " but  my  partner  has  for- 
gotten me,  or  made  a  mistake:  I  see  he  is  dancing  with  some 
one  else,  and  casting  agonised  glances  at  me  over  his  shoul- 
der now  and  then.1' 

She  nodded  and  smiled  to  some  one  in  the  distance,  and 
Mr.  l'Estrange  followed  her  glance  with  his  own. 

"  Oh,  young  Glossop :  I  see.  Then  you  are  free  ?  I  may 
lawfully  ask  you  to  dance — or  to  sit  out,  if  you  like  it  bet- 
ter  » 

11 1  am  fond  of  dancing,  but  I  would  rather  talk  than 
dance  just  now,"  said  Julian,  frankly.  "  You  see  it  is  not 
often  one  meets  an  old  friend." 

"  Then  you  count  me  an  old  friend! " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  l'Estrange;  you  were  so  kind  to  me." 

The  artist's  face  underwent  two  or  three  changes  in  the 
course  of  Julian's  speeches.  At  first  he  looked  grave,  even 
a  little  stern  and  anxious — that  was  when  she  spoke  of  him 
as  an  old  friend,  with  a  pleasant  graciousness  that  her  recent 
experiences  of  society  had  taught  her:  then  his  face  cleared, 
so  that  when  she  uttered  his  name  and  mentioned  his  kind- 
ness, a  peculiarly  bright  and  gratified  expression  rested  upon 
it  for  a  time. 

"  Will  you  come  and  look  at  the  orchids  in  the  conser- 
vatory ? "  he  said,  offering  her  his  arm.  u  They  are  very 
fine." 

Julian  glanced  involuntarily  at  Lady  Maria,  but  her 
chaperon  only  nodded  at  her  over  her  fan,  and  turned  smil- 
ing eyes  of  recognition  on  her  companion,  who  bowed  in 
response. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Maria  knows  you  ?  I  thought  she  didn't," 
Julian  blurted  out,  as  she  moved  away. 

"  She  had  perhaps  forgotten.  But  she  has  known  me  a 
good  many  years;  she  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me,"  said 
Mr.  l'Estrange,  quietly. 

"  For  a  moment  I  hardly  knew  you  myself,"  said  Julian. 
"  Dress  makes  a  great  difference— even  in  a  man." 


JULIAN'S  FRIEND.  220 

"  Much  greater  in  a  womau,"  said  he.  "  Perhaps  you 
hardly  realise    how  different    your  own  appearance   is — 

from " 

"  From  when  you  saw  me  last.  Oh,  but  I  am  quite  aware 
of  it,"  said  Julian,  merrily.  "  I  was  in  a  short  cotton  frock 
and  a  straw  hat ;  and  I  had  no  gloves,  I  remember,  and  my 
hair  was  all  down  my  back.  Oh,  I  am  sure  I  must  look  very 
different — I  hope  improved,  Mr.  l'Estrange." 

But  at  the  same  time  she  bethought  herself  of  what  she 
had  said  to  Lady  Maria  about  her  own  looks  in  the  cotton 
frock  and  straw  hat;  and  she  dropped  her  eyes  that  he 
might  not  read  the  little  insincerity,  the  craving  for  a  harm- 
less compliment  that  had  suddenly  beset  her. 

u  I  don't  know — I  liked  the  cotton  frock,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile;  and  Julian  felt  oddly  satisfied.  She  looked  up,  and 
all  her  soul  was  in  her  eyes. 

"  1  am  glad  you  say  that.  I  am  glad  you  like  the  cotton 
frock  best,"  she  said. 

"  Why  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  low,  moved  tone. 
They  had  reached  a  shady  and  secluded  spot  in  the  con- 
servatory, where  a  seat  for  two  persons  had  been  arranged 
behind  a  screen  of  tall  ferns  and  blooming  plants.  The  soft 
glow  of  rose-shaded  electric  lights  and  of  the  balls  of  col- 
oured transparency  that  called  themselves  Chinese  lanterns, 
filtered  through  the  shade  of  greenery  and  fell  in  charming 
tracery  of  light  and  shade  on  the  girl's  warm  whiteness  and 
tender  bloom,  on  her  pretty  curling  hair,  and  the  filmy  folds 
of  her  snowy  draperies.  Looking  at  her,  Mr.  l'Estrange 
could  not  feel  quite  sure  that  the  cotton  frock,  after  all,  be- 
came her  best. 

"  Why  ? "  she  said,  bending  her  head  over  her  feath- 
ered fan,  and  examining  its  handle  attentively,  "oh,  be- 
cause it  is  in  the  old  frock  that  I  feel  real.  It  is  myself 
that  you  know  in  the  short  frock  and  straw  hat — not  the 
dressed-up  young  lady  with  jewels  and  flowers  and  fan, 
which  always  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  masquerading  in 
things  that  did  not  belong  to  me."  She  raised  her  eyes 
suddenly,  and  although  they  were  full  of  laughter,  there 


230  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

was  a  pathos  behind  the  laughter  which  struck  her  listener 
to  the  heart. 

u  That  is  perhaps  only  because  you  are  not  quite  used  to 
them  yet:  you  have  not  been  k  out '  very  long,1'  he  said. 

u  I  don't  know:  I  have  been  out  some  months  now,  and 
I  ought  to  have  grown  a  little  used  to  things,  ought  I  not  ? 
But  every  time  I  go  to  a  party,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  '  fancy 
dress,1  don't  you  know  ?  One  has  to  look  in  a  certain  way 
— not  as  one  feels.  If  I  am  feeling  serious,  you  know, 
mamma  will  say  to  me,  'Julian,  why  don't  you  smile  ? '  or 
if  I  try  to  tell  Lady  Maria  anything  that  really  interests  me, 
she  taps  my  arm  with  her  fan  and  says,  '  Girls  don't  talk 
about  these  things  in  society,  my  dear.'  So  I  have  to  sit 
still  and  look  pleasant,  even  if  I  am  sick,  sorry,  or  sad ;  and 
life  seems  less  real  every  da3T." 

"  What  are  the  things  that  really  interest  you,  then  ? " 

"  May  one  talk  about  them  at  a  dance,  in  a  white  silk 
dress?  Oh,  Mr.  l'Estrange,  I'm  afraid  you  are  no  better 
than  I  am.  Like  me.  you  have  not  been  what  Lady  Maria 
calls  ' perfectly  drilled.'  lam  interested  in  dreadfully  un- 
fashionable things.  I  like  to  read  about  strikes — and  I  gen- 
erally take  the  side  of  the  workers,  which  mamma  says  is 
absolutely  immoral  of  me;  and  I  want  to  know  all  about 
women's  wages,  and  why  they  are  ground  down.  And 
somebody  took  me  once  to  see  a  Creche  and  an  Orphanage, 
and  let  me  play  with  the  children ;  and  I  wanted  to  go  once 
or  twice  every  week,  but  mamma  did  not  think  I  had  time 
for  it,  and  did  not  care  to  hear  me  talk  about  it,  so  it  was 
rather  disappointing." 

"  Why  had  you  not  time  for  it  ?  What  do  you  do  all 
day  ? " 

"  I  have  singing  lessons,"  said  Julian,  rather  dolorously, 
"  and  I  keep  up  my  German  and  my  drawing.  But  mamma 
wants  me  very  often.  I  have  notes  to  write  for  her,  and 
needlework  to  do;  and  we  pay  calls,  and  drive  in  the  Park, 
and  go  out  a  good  deal.  Oh.  I  enjoy  it  very  much :  it  is  all 
very  nice ;  but  it  makes  me  feel  not  real — like  my  dress.  It 
would  be  real  to  be  poor,  and  work  hard,  and  wear  shabby 


JULIAN'S  FRIEND.  231 

frocks,  like  the  majority  of  Englishwomen:  it  is  the  ma- 
jority who  are  poor,  is  it  not  ? — but  I  have  no  chance  of 
that,  and  no  doubt  I  should  not  like  it  if  I  had." 

"  No,  you  would  not  like  it,  unless  your  lot  in  life  gave 
you  a  motive  for  it.  Women  who  live  in  that  way  are  gen- 
erally working  and  striving  for  somebody  they  love." 

"  I  think,"  said  Julian,  quickly,  "  that  the  reverse  is  true, 
too — one  generally  loves  what  one  works  and  strives  for." 

"  Child,  where  did  you  get  these  ideas  ?  " 

u  I  don't  know.  Partly,  I  think,  from  some  of  the  things 
you  said  to  me.  Don't  you  remember  ?  .  .  .  You  made  me 
think  and  try  to  understand  what  life  ought  to  be.  But  I 
don't  understand,  and  I  don't  seem  to  think  rightly,"  said 
Julian,  with  a  suddenly  clouded  brow ;  "  for  everybody  says 
that  I  am  wrong." 

"No;  you  are  on  the  right  road.  Love  to  our  fellows — 
that  is  one  of  the  keys  to  the  right  understanding  of  life. 
And  the  other  is — love  of  God." 

Julian  gave  him  a  swift,  bright  look.  "  That  is  what  I 
thought;  but  in  my  life  the  thing  that  troubles  me  is  that 
the  keys  don't  unlock  anything." 

"  Patience !  You  will  see  your  way  in  time.  Only  don't 
lose  the  keys.  You  know  very  well  that  it  must  be  right  to 
keep  them  in  your  hands." 

"  Yes,"  said  Julian ;  but  she  sighed,  and  her  face  was  sud- 
denly overcast.  "Sometimes — it  seems  as  if  there  was  a 
chance  of  using  them— and  that  one  was  throwing  it  away." 

He  moved  a  little  uneasily.  He  wanted  to  hear  more, 
but  scarcely  knew  how  to  question.  At  last  he  spoke,  with 
great  deliberation. 

14  A  woman's  chances  sometimes — perhaps  oftenest — come 
through  marriage." 

"Yes,"  said  Julian,  drearily.  He  felt  the  dreariness  in 
her  tone. 

44  But  the  chance  does  not  come  Unless  she  loves  the  man 
she  marries." 

"  Oh,  if  only  I  could  be  sure  of  that ! "  said  the  girl,  with 
a  tremor  in  her  voice. 


232  TnE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Are  you  not  sure  of  it  ? " 

She  turned  away  her  face,  and  spoke  rapidly  and  un- 
evenly. "  Mamma  says  that  is  nonsense.  She  says  I  have 
no  business  to  think  whether  I  care  for  any  one  or  not,  and 
that  every  sensible  girl  leaves  things  of  that  sort  to  be  de- 
cided by  her  parents." 

u  Don't  believe  it,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange,  with  sudden 
warmth.  "  Decide  for  yourself,  or  you  will  be  miserable  all 
your  life  afterwards." 

She  made  a  nervous  little  movement  of  inquiry. 

"I  am  sure  you  would.  Women  who  marry  because 
their  parents  tell  them  to  do  so  are  happy  only  if  they  are 
dolls.  Women  with  hearts  and  brains  and  souls  soon  find 
out  that  they  have  made  a  great  mistake.  Their  conscience 
is  outraged,  their  lives  desecrated :  they  have  tied  themselves 
to  a  log  which  will  drag  them  down  for  ever;  and  the  bet- 
ter and  loftier  their  nature  the  deeper  and  more  lasting  will 
be  their  sense  of  shame." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  terrible !  "  cried  Julian.  Then,  low- 
ering her  voice,  she  asked—"  But  should  one  put  one's  own 
benefit  before  that  of  another  person  ?  " 

"  You  mean  that  you  are  told  that  you  might  help  and 
save  another  person  by  sacrificing  yourself  ?  " 

"  Something  like  that." 

"  Who  made  you  responsible  for  any  man's  soul  ?  "  said 
Mr.  TEstrange,  rather  sternly.  "  You  are  only  responsible 
for  your  own." 

Julian  listened  as  if  fascinated :  a  tender  colour  rose  in 
her  face,  and  her  eyes  had  suddenly  grown  humid. 

"  Your  first  duty  is  to  yourself.  You  do  most  good  in 
the  world  by  being  true,  and  pure,  and  generous,  and  wise : 
you  do  no  good  to  any  one  by  refusing  to  listen  to  the  dic- 
tates of  your  own  heart  and  soul.  If  you  are  untrue  to 
yourself,  it  is  useless  to  think  that  you  can  help  another." 

"  I  see,"  said  Julian,  simply. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  went  on  in  a 
different  tone,  and  with  an  evident  effort. 

"  I  will  tell  you  something— something  about  a  girl  I 


JULIAN'S  FRIEND.  233 

once  knew.  It  was  a  good  many  years  ago.  She  married  a 
rich  man  whom  she  did  not  care  for,  because  she  thought 
that  it  was  right  to  obey  her  parents.  The  world  praised 
her,  and  she  herself  believed  that  she  had  done  her  duty. 
But  the  man  was  uncongenial — harsh — jealous — inconceiv- 
ably stupid ;  he  was  angry  when  he  found  she  did  not  love 
him ;  and  he  treated  her  cruelly.  For  many  years  nobody 
found  it  out.  But— only  the  other  day — she  died— of  a  bro- 
ken heart." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?    Did  she  say  so  ? " 

He  bowed  his  head:  it  seemed  to  Julian  that  his  face  had 
grown  strangely  pale.  "She  sent — for  a  man  whom  she 
had  once  loved,  when  she  was  on  her  death  bed,  and  told 
him  so.  She  asked  him  to  forgive  her  for  having,  as  she 
said,  ruined  three  lives  by  her  own  want  of  courage  and 
truth." 

u  And  he  forgave  her  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Was  she  right  ?  had  she  ruined  his  life,  too  ?"  Julian 
asked,  almost  in  a  whisper.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that 
he  was  speaking  of  himself. 

He  raised  his  head — and  she  thought  what  a  noble  head 
it  was,  and  how  fine  were  the  lines  of  his  features,  the  ex- 
pression upon  the  grave  and  somewhat  careworn  face. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  manful  ring  in  his  voice,  "  she  did 
not  ruin  it:  she  only  overcast  it  for  a  time.  And  with  that 
confession  of  hers,  the  bitterness  of  the  pain  was  taken  away ; 
only — he  does  not  want  to  see  any  other  bright  and  beautiful 
young  creature  making  the  same  mistake." 

He  looked  at  her  so  kindly  that  Julian  felt  at  liberty  to 
give  him  back  a  serious  and  wistful  smile. 

uYou  are  very  kind  to  me,  Mr.  l'Estrange,"  she  said, 
gently,  "and  I  am  very  glad  that  I  have  spoken  to  you  about 
some  of  my  perplexities.  I  am  sure  that  what  you  have  said 
will  help  me." 

"  I  shall  be  pleased  indeed  if  it  does.  And  if  there  is 
any  other  way  in  which  I  can  be  of  service  to  you,  I  shall  be 
glad." 


234  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Julian,  grateful,  but  a  little  dubious. 
"  Are  we  likely,  I  wonder,  to  meet  again  ?  I  have  not  seen 
you  in  London  before." 

u  For  a  good  reason:  I  have  only  just  come  up  to  town. 
Yes,  you  may  see  me  again :  I  should  think  it  highly  prob- 
able. Are  you  going  to  Lady  Mountsorrel's  on  Wednes- 
day ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Julian,  opening  her  eyes ;  "  are  you  ? " 

It  was  impossible  for  her  to  keep  the  puzzled  surprise  out 
of  her  tone.  Lady  Mountsorrel's  house  was  one  of  the  most 
inaccessible  in  London. 

He  smiled  as  he  replied — 

"  I  believe  so.     I  have  an  invitation." 

"  I  am  going  with  Lady  Maria.  She  is  very  kind  in  tak- 
ing me  about,"  said  Julian,  casting  down  her  eyes,  in  order 
to  hide  the  embarrassed  wonder  that  she  was  feeling.  How 
was  it  that  this  plain,  unassuming,  almost  commonplace 
artist  had  the  entree  to  so  many  fine  houses— houses  where 
even  her  brother  Edmund  could  not  gain  admittance  ?  There 
was  something  uncanny  about  it :  something  that  Julian  did 
not  understand. 

Perhaps  he  read  her  confusion  in  her  face,  for  he  spoke 
very  seriously  and  very  gently  in  another  moment's  time. 

11  There  is  something  I  think  I  must  explain  to  you,  Miss 
Creighton.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry  with  me  for  a  sort 
of  deception  which  sprang  up  almost  involuntarily,  but 
which " 

"  Oh,  hullo,  here  you  are !  I've  been  hunting  for  you 
everywhere.  It's  our  dance,  don't  you  know!  Who  ever 
thought  of  finding  you  cooped  up  here  ?  "  And  Sir  Harry 
Glossop  cast  a  glance  of  extreme  contempt  and  indignation 
at  Julian's  companion. 

Julian  turned  her  shoulder  to  the  new-comer.  "  Please 
finish  what  you  were  saying,"  she  said,  pleadingly. 

Mr.  l'Estrange  shook  his  head  with  a  smile. 

"  It  would  take  me  such  a  long  time,  that  I  think  I  must 
defer  it  to  another  occasion,"  he  said.  uOnly  one  word, 
Miss  Creighton:  don't  believe  all  you  hear." 


JULIAN'S  FRIEND.  235 

He  bowed  and  retreated,  while  Sir  Harry,  offering  Julian 
his  arm,  broke  out  into  a  grumble. 

"  Who's  that  old  buffer  you've  been  hiding  away  with  ? 
Some  great  swell,  I  suppose,  that  you  don't  mind  throwing 
me  over  for."' 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind:  a  poor  artist,"  said  Julian,  boldly. 
And  Mr.  l'Estrange,  who  was  not  very  far  away,  heard  the 
words,  and  smiled  to  himself  with  supreme  satisfaction. 

"Whew!  Not  worth  spending  so  much  time  over. 
Everybody's  been  wondering  where  you  were.  I  thought 
you  were  huffed  with  me— taken  the  hump,  because  I  danced 
with  the  duchess's  daughter.  Couldn't  help  it,  I  assure  you. 
I  would  sooner  have  danced  with  you  than  any  one  in  the 
room." 

"  I  was  very  glad  to  sit  out,"  said  Julian,  coldly.  "  I  was 
tired." 

11  Were  you  really  ?  Well,  wTe  needn't  dance  now,  if  you 
like.     Sit  down  here,  and  I'll  get  you  an  ice." 

He  did  not  give  her  time  to  object.  He  almost  thrust  her 
into  a  chair;  then  flew  for  ices,  cakes,  strawberries — any- 
thing that  he  thought  likely  to  meet  her  taste.  Julian  wel- 
comed them  as  a  diversion :  anything  rather  than  Sir  Harry's 
conversation. 

But  she  was  not  to  escape  the  thing  she  dreaded.  The 
seat  in  the  corridor  which  he  had  chosen  was  out  of  hearing 
of  any  of  the  guests.  Sir  Harry  felt  that  the  psychological 
moment  had  arrived.  He  plunged  rapidly  into  an  exposition 
of  the  desire  of  his  heart.  Before  Julian  knew  what  he  was 
doing,  or  could  arrest  the  flow  of  his  eloquence,  he  was  in 
the  midst  of  that  proposal  of  marriage  which  she  had  been 
longing  to  avert. 

The  worst  was  that  he  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer. 
He  averred  that  he  had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Creighton's  consent, 
that  Lady  Maria  had  set  her  heart  upon  the  match,  and  that 
he  would  never  be  satisfied  until  she  accepted  him.  Julian 
found  herself  in  the  awkward  position  of  not  being  believed 
even  when  she  expressed  herself  as  clearly  as  she  could,  and 
to  the  verge  of  positive  rudeness. 


236  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

He  took  her  back  at  last,  sullenly  enough,  to  Lady  Maria. 
To  Julian's  surprise  she  saw  that  Lady  Maria's  nearest 
neighbour  was  Mr.  l'Estrange,  and  that  he  was  talking  to 
the  old  lady  as  if  he  knew  her  very  well.  But  when  he  saw 
Julian  approaching,  he  moved  away  with  a  bow,  and  let  her 
take  her  place  beside  her  chaperon.  Lady  Maria  looked  at 
the  girl  with  twinkling,  half-malicious  eyes. 

u  My  dear,"  she  said,  in  Julian's  ear,  u  you  are  a  very 
clever  little  girl." 

And  Julian  could  not  imagine  what  she  meant. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN  WHICH  EDMUND  IS  DIPLOMATIC. 

Mrs.  Creighton's  cup  was  full  Never,  she  pathetically 
declared,  had  so  many  woes  been  mingled  for  the  drinking 
of  any  respectable  British  matron,  whose  sole  desire  it  was 
that  her  sons  and  daughters  should  marry,  and  should  marry 
well. 

She  was  sitting  alone  one  morning,  writing  notes  at  a 
davenport,  when  her  son  Edmund  suddenly  walked  into  the 
room.  This  was  an  unusual  occurrence,  for  Edmund  was 
generally  busy  at  that  hour.  Mrs.  Creighton  put  down  her 
pen. 

"  Good  morning,  Edmund.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  want 
to  consult  you  about  Julian,"  she  began. 

Edmund  dutifully  kissed  his  mothers  cheek,  and  drew 
up  a  chair  opposite  hers.  "  Julian? "  he  said.  "  Is  she  giv- 
ing you  trouble  ?  I  thought  she  was  such  a  success — Lady 
Maria's  prime  favourite,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  So  she  is,  and  it  is  just  that  which  makes  her  so  tire- 
some." 

11  Well,"  said  Edmund.  "  I'm  sorry  she  is  giving  you  any 
trouble;  but  unless  it  is  something  extremely  important,  I 
would  sooner  hear  it  at  another  time,  as  I  have  not  much 


IN   WHICH  EDMUND  IS   DIPLOMATIC.  237 

leisure  at  present,  and  there  is  a  matter  on  which  I  wished 
to  consult  you  " 

u  To  consult  me  ? "  Julian's  affairs  went  out  of  the 
mother's  head.  Edmund  was  infinitely  more  important 
and  p*recious  than  Julian  in  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  Edmund,  what 
is  it?" 

Edmund  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  affected  to 
smile  at  her  eagerness.  But  he  was  a  little  nervous,  in  spite 
of  himself,  and  his  mother  suspected  as  much.  She  listened 
with  anxious  eyes  and  a  foreboding  heart. 

"  You  know  that  T  have  been  going  on  with  the  furnish- 
ing of  my  house  ? "  he  began. 

"  So  Julian  has  told  me." 

11 1  myself  have  lived  in  a  corner  of  it,  and  superintended 
everything.  It  is  not  a  bad  house — I  always  liked  Campclen 
Hill  myself ;  and  there  is  a  little  garden  where  one  can  pre- 
tend that  one  is  in  the  country.  I  had  the  advice  of  Morris 
Burne  about  the  furniture  and  fittings,  and  I  really  think 
they  are  rather  nice." 

"  You  must  have  spent  a  good  sum  of  money  on  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Creighton,  rather  grimly. 

"  Well,  I  had  been  economising  for  the  purpose  for  some 
time,"  returned  her  son,  with  a  smile.  "  I  had  a  fair  amount 
on  hand.     I  have  been  tolerably  lucky,  as  times  go." 

uYes,  so  it  seems.  Your  father,  at  your  age,  was  not 
able  to  throw  his  money  about  in  the  way  it  pleases  you 
to  do." 

"  My  father  did  not  go  out  of  the  usual  jog-trot  line  of  the 
profession.  I  have  been  fortunate  in  some  of  my  invest- 
ments," said  Edmund.  He  would  not  call  them  speculations 
when  speaking  to  his  mother,  least  she  would  take  alarm.  "  I 
have  not  been  at  all  extravagent  in  my  expenditure.  You 
must  come  and  look  at  the  result,  mother ;  I  should  like  to 
have  your  opinion  of  the  drawing-room." 

"  I  shall  be  pleased  to  come,  Edmund,"  said  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton, with  dignity.  "  I  began  to  think  that  you  cared  very 
little  for  my  opinion." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Edmund,  in  his  most  persuasive 
16 


238  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

manner,  "  I  care  very  much— too  much,  mother,  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind,  because  I  am  afraid  of  vexing  or  disappoint- 
ing you." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  for  a  moment,  and  then  with- 
drew it  quietly,  without  undue  haste.  The  Creightons'were 
not,  as  a  family,  given  to  demonstrations  of  affection ;  and 
Mrs.  Creighton  was  gratified,  but  somewhat  surprised,  by  this 
approach  to  a  caress.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  supposed 
he  wanted  to  get  something  out  of  her,  and  tightened  her 
lips. 

11  Well,  Edmund  ?  "  she  said,  expectantly. 

"When  a  man  gets  a  house,  mother,  and  furnishes  it, 
you  can  generally  guess  what  it  is  for." 

"  You  need  not  beat  about  the  bush  so  much,  Edmund. 
You  want  to  get  married,  I  suppose.     Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  Alys  Lorimer,"  said  her  son,  feeling  that  frankness 
was  now  his  best  policy. 

"  I  thought  so.  You  know  my  opinion  of  that  girl,  I 
think." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  want  to 
know.  She  is  almost  penniless— her  paltry  sixty  or  seventy 
a  year  does  not  count  for  much — but  you  cannot  reasonably 
make  any  other  objection  to  her.  She  is  well-born,  well- 
mannered,  and  very  pretty :  a  girl  whom  many  people  would 
be  eager  to  welcome  as  a  daughter-in-law." 

"  Pretty !    With  that  limp !  " 

"  It  is  very  slight.  It  is  almost  imperceptible  at  times, 
and  there  is  every  likelihood  of  its  disappearing  as  she  grows 
stronger.     Her  face  is  always  beautiful." 

"  You  cannot  deny  that  she  is  weak  and  sickly,"  said  Mrs. 
Creighton,  with  vicious  emphasis. 

"  She  is  delicate.  I  don't  mind  that.  I  detest  your  bounc- 
ing, robust  women." 

"  You  are  quite  infatuated,  Edmund.  But  I  will  say  one 
thing  more— and  it  is  the  root  of  all  my  objections— the  girl 
is  not  only  weak  in  body,  but  weak  in  mind." 

"Mother!" 

"  You  need  not  fly  out  at  me  in  that  way.     I  know  what  I 


IN   WHICH  EDMUND  IS  DIPLOMATIC.  239 

mean,  and  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  do  not  insinuate  that  she  is 
an  idiot  or  an  imbecile — far  from  it ;  but  I  do  say  that  she 
has  no  will  of  her  own,  no  resisting  power,  no  force  of  any 
kind " 

''You  are  quite  wrong.  She  has  great  tenacity  of  pur- 
pose." 

11  Oh,  so  has  a  limpet,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  snappishly. 
"  But  if  you  once  deprive  it  of  its  hold,  what  happens  ?  The 
creature  dies.  I  should  prefer  something  with,  at  any  rate, 
an  individual  life  of  its  own.     She  has  none." 

"  We  had  better  drop  metaphor  and  come  to  facts,"  said 
Edmund,  coldly.  "  Of  course  it  is  superfluous  for  me  to  say 
that  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  Alys  Lorimer  is  the  girl  that 
I  have  chosen  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  wish  to  know  what  line 
you  mean  to  take,  and  what  I  have  to  expect." 

14  You  do  not  expect  me  to  receive  her  with  open  arms, 
when  I  hold  my  present  views  of  her  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not,  but  I  do  expect  you  to  be  civil." 

Mother  and  son  faced  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
There  was  anger  in  Mrs.  Creighton's  face,  while  Edmund 
showed  only  a  cold  impassibility,  growing  stonier  and  more 
rigid  when  she  burst  forth  into  two  or  three  sharp  sentences 
of  repudiation  of  his  choice.  She  did  not  actually  rage- 
she  was  too  astute  a  woman  to  lose  her  self-control,  and,  be- 
sides, she  was  in  heart  rather  afraid  of  Edmund,  but  she  con- 
centrated a  good  deal  of  bitterness  into  the  few  words  she 
used. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  young  man,  presently.  "  We  have 
once  or  twice  discussed  this  subject,  but  never  quite  so 
frankly.  We  may  as  well  thrash  the  matter  out  this  time. 
What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  Are  you  going  to  treat  her  civilly 
or  not  ? " 

u  I  trust,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  stiffly,  "  that  I  shall  not 
forget  what  is  due  to  her  as  the  wife  of  my  son.  I  have  no 
desire  to  see  any  breach  between  you  and  your  family.  Of 
course,  things  can  never  be  the  same  again ;  but  there  is  no 
need  for  the  world  to  know  what  we  feel  on  the  subject.  I 
shall  do  my  duty,  Edmund." 


2^0  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Edmund,  rather  satirically ; 
"but  how  far  does  your  ideal  of  duty  extend,  mother  ?  Does 
it  include  kindness  to  my  wife  or  not  ? " 

Mrs.  Creighton  suddenly  started — with  rather  histrionic 
effect. 

"  Your  wife  !  You  do  not  mean  that  you  are  married 
already  ? " 

'"  No,  of  course  not.     But  I  soon  shall  be.1' 

"  Soon  !     Oh,  Edmund,  without  consulting  us  ? " 

"  It  is  so  easy  and  pleasant  to  consult  you,  is  it  not  ? " 
said  Edward,  somewhat  bitterly.  "Look  here:  these  are 
the  facts  of  the  case.  Alys  has  been  abroad  for  the  last  few 
weeks  with  her  step-sister,  Elizabeth  Verrall.  She  is  return- 
ing next  week,  and  will,  of  course,  pass  through  London  on 
her  way." 

"  If  you  want  her  to  stay  here " 

"  I  do  not  want  her  to  stay  here.  She  was  not  made  suf- 
ficiently happy  during  her  last  visit  for  me  to  be  able  to 
propose  such  a  thing.  She  will  stay  with  her  sister  at  a 
quiet  little  hotel  that  I  know  of.  I  have  been  in  correspond- 
ence with  Miss  Verrall,  and  she  agrees  with  me  that  it  would 
be  much  the  best  plan  if  I  could  induce  Alys  to  marry  me 
at  once,  so  that  she  need  not  return  to  Quest — a  place  which 
will  always  have  unhappy  associations  for  her." 

"  Ah,  that  wretched  criminal!  "  sighed  Mrs.  Creighton. 

Edmund  winced  and  frowned,  but,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  went  on. 

"  If  she  finds  that  all  the  arrangements  are  complete,  and 
that  nobody  will  put  any  obstacles  in  her  way,  I  think  it 
more  than  likely  that  she  will  consent.  And  that  is  why  I 
have  come  to  you.  Of  course  you  will  not  do  or  say  any- 
thing to  make  her  uncomfortable." 

"I  shall  not  see  her  most  probably." 

"Yes,"  said  Edmund,  in  a  cool,  inflexible  tone.  "I 
should  like  you  to  see  her.  I  should  be  much  obliged  to 
you  if  you  would  call  on  her  at  Linder's  Hotel,  and  show 
that  you  did  not  retain  any  memory  of  former  unpleasant- 
ness." 


IN  WHICH   EDMUND  IS  DIPLOMATIC.  241 

"Really,  Edmund,  you  ask  too  much,"  said  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton, in  an  amazed  tone. 

"Not  at  all  too  much,  my  dear  mother.  It  is  the  only 
thing  you  can  do,  if  you  wish  to  maintain  friendly  relations 
with  me  and  my  wife  after  our  marriage.  That  is  why  I 
came  to  talk  it  over  with  you  beforehand.  I  want  the  mat- 
ter settled  now." 

Mrs.  Creighton  protested,  rather  angrily,  that  she  could 
not  possibly  settle  the  matter  in  this  way ;  but  she  knew — 
and  Edmund  also  knew — that  she  would  be  forced  to  yield. 
She  capitulated  at  last,  and  was  allowed  to  retire  with  the 
honours  of  war.  That  is  to  say.  her  son  thanked  her,  and 
became  once  more  perfectly  amiable  and  suave  in  manner, 
as  his  mother  liked  him  to  be.  He  even  went  the  length  of 
asking  her  why  she  was  troubled  about  Julian. 

"  Julian  is  a  silly  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  impatiently. 
"  Sir  Harry  Glossop  proposed  to  her  last  night,  and  she  tells 
me  that  she  has  refused  him.     Such  ridiculous  nonsense  ! " 

"  Glossop  is  considered  a  good  match,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Very  good  indeed.  He  has  at  least  ten  or  twelve  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  a  lovely  old  country  house.  They  say  he 
has  sown  a  few  wild  oats — but  really,  what  can  one  expect  ? 
He  will  not  make  the  worse  husband  for  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Creighton,  who  naturally  took  the  worldly  view  of  a  man's 
suitability. 

"  He  is  a  bit  of  a  fool :  that's  the  worst  of  him,"  said  Ed- 
mund, reflectively,  "and  Julian  is  a  clever  girl." 

"I  wish  she  were  not  quite  so  clever,  then.  What  does 
a  girl  want  with  cleverness  ? " 

"It's  rather  the  fashion  for  girls  to  be  clever,"  said  Ed- 
mund; but  he  laughed  disparagingly  at  the  same  time.  He 
did  not  greatly  admire  clever  girls :  Alys  was  certainly  not 
clever.  It  was  enough,  he  thought,  if  a  woman  were  amia- 
ble and  intelligent. 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  her,  Edmund.  Not  that  it 
will  be  of  much  good  when  you  are  making  such  a  poor 
match  yourself.  That  is  one  of  the  worst  parts  of  it.  You 
will  be  quoted  ever  afterwards  as  an  example.     'Edmund 


242  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

did  not  marry  for  money,  Edmund  married  for  love.  Ed- 
mund was  noble  and  disinterested,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.' 
Oh,  I  know  ! "     And  Mrs.  Creighton  sighed  deeply. 

k'I  might  see  her  for  all  that,"  said  Edmund;  and  guided 
by  his  mother's  advice,  he  penetrated  to  a  little  sitting-room 
where  Julian  usually  spent  her  leisure  time.  Here  she  was 
generally  as  busy  as  a  bird;  but  Edmund  found  her  leaning 
against  the  open  window,  and  looking  out  idly  at  a  charm- 
ing prospect  of  chimney-pots,  tiled  roofs,  and  sooty  sparrows. 
When  she  turned  to  speak  to  him,  he  saw  by  her  eyes  that 
she  had  been  crying. 

"  Well,  Julian,"  he  began  kindly — for  in  his  way  he  was 
fond  of  his  little  sister,  and  rather  proud  of  her,— "  what 
have  you  been  doing  now  ? " 

"  Has  mamma  told  you  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  vivid  blush. 

u  She  has  indeed.  How  can  you  account  for  your  mis- 
demeanours ?  Seriously,  Julian,  I  think  you  are  acting  like 
a  fool.  You  are  throwing  away  a  very  good  chance  of  es- 
tablishing yourself  in  life." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  establish  myself  in  life,"  said  Julian. 
uNot,  at  least,  in  that  way." 

"  What  other  way  is  there  ?  A  woman's  vocation  is— 
marriage." 

"  Oh,  Edmund,"  said  the  girl,  pleadingly,  "if  you  would 
only  persuade  mamma  that  I  am  not  a  person  whom  mar- 
riage would  suit !  If  only  she  would  let  me  go  out  into  the 
world  and  earn  my  living,  I  should  be  much  happier  than 
if  I  married  any  one  I  did  not  love." 

"  Who  has  been  putting  these  nonsensical  ideas  into  your 
head  ? " 

"  They  are  not  nonsensical:  they  are  true,  and  you  know 
it — for  you  are  in  love  with  Alys  Lorimer;  I  know  you 
are!" 

Edmund  felt  a  little  discomfited,  but  tried  to  defend  him- 
self against  the  attack. 

u  A  man  can  afford  to  indulge  himself,  my  dear:  he  has 
his  profession ;  but  a  woman's  career  is  spoiled  if  she  mar- 
ries badly." 


IN   WHICH  EDMUND  IS  DIPLOMATIC.  243 

"Then  it  must  be  spoiled,"  said  Julian,  with  flashing 
eyes;  ufor  never,  never,  never  will  I  marry  Sir  Harry 
Glossop.  I  wish  I  could  leave  London,  and  go  back  to 
Quest." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  will  be  allowed  to  do  that.  By  the 
by,"  said  Edmund,  suddenly,  "  you  never  saw  anything  again 
of  that  man  who  used  to  talk  to  you  about  your  drawings 
— what  was  his  name  ? " 

"Oh,  Mr.  l'Estrange!  Yes,  I  saw  him  last  night  at  the 
Kerouels',"  said  Julian  unhesitatingly,  but  with  a  sudden 
flush  which  Edmund  could  not  help  noticing. 

"  You  did !     And — you  spoke  to  him  ? " 

"Oh,  yes!  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  I'm  afraid 
mamma  would  be  angry  if  she  knew." 

"  Angry?    Why?    Not  she!" 

"  Oh,  but  Edmund,  she  begged  me  not  to  speak  to  him." 

Edmund  laughed  as  if  he  were  very  much  tickled. 

u  Why  do  you  laugh  ? "  said  Julian  surveying  him  with 
suspicion.  "  Do  you  think  she  would  like  him  if  she  knew 
him  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  she  would." 

"Well,  he  is  very  nice.  And  he  knows  Lady  Maria 
quite  well.  I  saw  him  talking  to  her.  Lady  Maria  was 
rather  funny  last  night,  I  think." 

"  Funny— how  ? " 

"  She  looked  at  me  in  such  an  odd  way,  and  told  me  that 
I  was  a  very  clever  little  girl,"  said  Julian  reflectively. 

"  And  you  don't  think  you  had  done  anything  to  render 
you  worthy  of  such  praise  ? " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  had  done  nothing— except  talk  to  Mr. 
l'Estrange." 

Edmund  laughed,  and  Julian  felt  rather  puzzled  and  irri- 
tated, but  she  could  not  induce  him  to  explain. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  at  last;  "let  us  make  a  bargain." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is." 

"I  hope  to  be  going  to  marry  Alys  in  about  a  week's 
time,  Ju." 

"Oh,  I   am  so  glad!     I  congratulate  you,  Edmund,  I 


244  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

always  knew  you  were  fond  of  her.  But  has  that  anything 
to  do  with  the  bargain  ? " 

"  If  you  will  promise  to  be  kind  and  sisterly  and  good  to 
her,  I  will  speak  to  mother  about  this  man — TEstrange,  and 
dissipate  her  objections  to  him.  Then  you  can  talk  to  him 
as  much  as  you  like." 

"  But  there  is  no  need  to  make  that  sort  of  bargain,"  said 
Julian,  seriously.  "  Of  course  I  shall  be  kind  and  sisterly 
to  Alys,  whatever  happen.  I  always  liked  her  — al- 
though   " 

"Although  what?" 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  it,"  remarked  the  girl,  in- 
genuously. "  I  was  thinking  that  some  people  said  she  did 
not  behave  quite  well  to  poor  Mr.  Moor. " 

"Please  keep  that  sentiment  to  yourself,"  said  Edmund, 
with  displeasure.  "  Would  you  have  had  her  marry  a  mur- 
derer ? " 

"I  don't  think  he  was  a  murderer.  And  I  think  a 
woman  should  be  true  to  the  man  she  loves,"  said  Julian, 
steadily. 

"  You  talk  a  little  too  freely  about  love,"  returned  Ed- 
mund. "  Your  mind  seems  to  dwell  upon  it  in  a  way  that 
is  not  becoming  in  a  girl  of  your  age." 

" Dear  me!"  cried  Julian,  hastily;  "if  I  may  think  about 
marriage,  surely  I  may  think  about  love!  " 

To  this  remark  Edmund  had  no  reply  ready,  and  he  soon 
took  leave  of  her;  not  forgetting,  however,  to  speak  to  his 
mother  for  a  few  minutes  on  his  way  out,  and  leaving  her — 
to  Julian's  great  surprise — in  an  unusually  contented  and 
"  uplifted  "  state  of  mind. 


A   MARRIAGE   DAY.  245 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  MARRIAGE  DAY. 

Linder's  Hotel  was  a  very  quiet,  very  respectable  place, 
greatly  frequented  by  sober  families  and  old  gentlemen  from 
the  country,  and  quite  suitable  as  a  resting-place  for  Alys 
and  Lisbeth  when  they  arrived  in  London.  Edmund  met 
them  at  the  station,  and  installed  them  in  their  rooms:  he 
had  taken  a  private  sitting-room  and  a  couple  of  bedrooms 
for  them,  and  had  instructed  the  landlord,  with  whom  lie 
was  already  acquainted,  to  treat  them  with  the  profoundest 
respect  and  politeness.  But  he  had  tact  enough  not  to  stay 
more  than  ten  minutes  on  this  first  occasion ;  he  left  them 
to  refresh  themselves,  and  promised  to  return  in  the  evening. 

His  quick  eye  noted  at  once  that  Alys  was  looking  better 
— fresher  and  prettier  than  he  bad  seen  her  for  a  long  time. 
She  had  cast  off  the  mourning  garments  altogether,  and  was 
prettily  dressed.  From  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  and  the 
readiness  of  her  laughter,  be  conjectured  that  she  would 
not  take  exception  to  the  plan  that  he  was  waiting  to  pro- 
pose. 

It  was  Lisbeth  who  surprised  him.  He  had  never  greatly 
admired  her,  and  bad  even  disputed  her  claim  to  be  called 
beautiful.  But  she  had  blossomed  forth  into  a  grave  splen- 
dour at  which  he  stood  amazed.  She  was  statelier  than  ever, 
and  her  face  was  thinned — he  called  it  refined — by  thought 
and  suffering.  There  was  a  peculiar  distinction  about  her 
now  which  could  not  fail  to  strike  the  observer,  and  he  was 
not  surprised  to  hear  afterwards  that  she  had  been  much  ad- 
mired, and  considered  a  far  handsomer  woman  than  Alys 
Lorimer.  Criticism  of  that  kind  never  disturbed  Edmund 
in  the  least.  "  She  may  be  handsomer,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  but  she  is  not  my  style." 

She  dressed  very  plainly — generally  in  black — but  she 
had  grown  careful  of  the  make  and  material  of  her  dresses, 
and  seemed  always  to  have  hit  upon  the  very  thing  that  be- 
came her  best.     As  Edmund  wTatched  her  move  across  the 


246  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

room,  with  her  long  robes  trailing  behind  her  (she  had  de- 
veloped a  new  liking  for  a  train,  and  it  certainly  added  dig- 
nity to  her  demeanour),  he  said  to  himself,  with  satisfaction, 
that  even  his  mother  would  not  be  able  to  find  fault  with 
the  manner  and  appearance  of  the  much-dreaded  mistress  of 
Quest. 

Lisbeth  knew  of  his  design  to  persuade  Alys  into  marry- 
ing him  at  once,  and  approved  of  it.  If  Alys  meant  to 
marry  him,  she  had  said  it  would  be  much  better  for  her  to 
do  it  at  once,  and  not  to  return  to  Quest  at  all.  At  Quest  it 
would  be  impossible  to  avoid  sad  memories.  The  sisters  had 
been  cheerful  and  friendly  while  they  were  abroad ;  but  it 
was  possible  that  division  and  discussion  might  arise  if  they 
found  themselves  together  in  the  old  house  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  so  much  that  was  tragic  and  unexpected.  Lis- 
beth shrank  less  from  the  prospect  of  loneliness  than  from 
that  of  Alys's  paling,  melancholy  face. 

So  it  was  with  a  good  heart  that  she  left  the  girl  alone 
with  Edmund  that  evening;  and  she  hoped,  honestly  and 
truly,  that  Alys  would  put  no  obstacles  in  his  way. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Alys's  objections  proved  easy  to  over- 
come. Her  nerves  were  stronger,  and  her  courage  was 
therefore  greater  than  when  Edmund  had  seen  her  last; 
and  after  the  first  shock,  she  did  not  seem  to  find  the  pro- 
posal utterly  unreasonable.  And  Edmund  knew  her  weak 
point:  he  knew  how  to  urge  and  to  persuade. 

"  It  will  save  you  from  going  back  to  that  horribly  lonely 
place  among  the  mountains,"  he  said  to  her,  with  a  pretended 
shiver. 

Alys  shivered  in  reality.  "  It  is  like  a  nightmare  to  me," 
she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child,  and  I  don't  wonder.  You  had  bet- 
ter not  see  the  place  again." 

"  But,  Lisbeth !  won't  she  be  hurt  ? " 

uShe  is  far  too  sensible,  Alys;  I  wrote  to  her  some  little 
time  ago,  and  told  her  what  I  thought.  She  quite  agreed 
with  me.  She  thinks  it  would  be  much  better  for  you  to 
marry  me  at  once  than  to  go  north  again." 


A  MARRIAGE  DAY.  247 

"  Oh,"  says  Alys,  a  little  hurt;  "  does  she  not  want  me  ? " 

"  She  is  a  very  sensible  person,"  said  Edmund,  gravely, 
"  and  sees  clearly  what  would  suit  you  best.  She  is  quite 
willing  to  sacrifice  herself,  and  let  you  go.  After  all,  you 
know,  dear,  she  is  used  to  Quest,  and  used  to  loneliness." 

"  I  suppose  she  is.     But  I  did  think And  what  will 

your  mother  say  ? " 

11  Oh,  she  is  quite  prepared  for  it.  I  told  her  the  other 
day,"  said  Edmund,  lightly.  "  I  expect  that  she  will  come 
and  call  on  you  to-morrow.  You  must  not  mind  her  cold 
manner,  dearest;  she  really  wishes  and  intends  to  be  kind." 

He  felt  the  girl  shrink  a  little,  and  hurried  on  immedi- 
ately to  pleasanter  subjects. 

'•  The  house  is  all  ready.  I  have  amused  myself  while 
you  were  away  by  trying  to  arrange  it  as  you  would  like." 

"  Have  you  really  ?  "  she  asked,  with  brightening  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  little  boudoir  for  you,  draped  in  the  palest 
shades  of  eau  de  nil  silk,  with  cream-white  furniture  and 
white  rugs  on  the  floor.  It  will  just  suit  you.  I  think.  I 
was  lucky  enough  to  hit  on  some  charming  Rossetti  sketches 
for  the  walls;  and  there  are  all  your  favourite  prints  from 
Watts  and  Burne-Jones  in  the  library." 

"  Oh,  Edmund,  how  lovely !  " 

"  The  piano  is  a  Bechstein — I  think  I  heard  you  say  you 
liked  his  instruments.  You  must  come  and  try  it:  if  you 
don't  care  for  the  tone  it  shall  be  changed." 

u  I  am  sure  to  like  it." 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  want  to  see  you  reigning  as 
queen  and  mistress  over  the  rooms  that  I  have  designed  for 
you  ? " 

Alys  succumbed.  It  was  impossible  to  her  to  resist  such 
appeals  to  her  pleasure-loving  and  artistic  temperament. 
Edmund  understood  her  far  better  than  Francis  Moor  had 
ever  done.  Warmth  and  luxury  and  beauty  were  more  to 
her  than  any  amount  of  passionate  fervour  and  poetic  fire. 

"  But,  Edmund,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  how  can  it  possibly 
be  managed  in  the  time  ?  " 

u  Won't  you  leave  that  to  me,  my  darling  ?  " 


2^8  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Oh,  yes — only  I  wanted  to  know.  Shall  you  have  to 
get  a  special  licence  ?  " 

'*  No,  I  knew  that  my  Alys  would  be  reasonable." 

u  You  knew  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  darling.  I  put  up  the  banns  three  weeks 
ago.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  our  walking  into  a  church 
to-morrow  and  getting  married  straight  away." 

She  pretended  at  first  to  be  a  little  angry  at  his  having 
taken  her  consent  for  granted :  but  her  anger  was  very  short 
lived.  On  the  whole  she  was  rather  glad  to  find  the  matter 
taken  so  completely  out  of  her  hands. 

The  meeting  between  herself  and  Mrs.  Creighton,  on 
which  Edmund  insisted,  passed  off  very  well.  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton was  rather  impressed  by  Lisbeth,  and  said  that  nobody 
had  ever  told  her  what  a  handsome,  well-dressed  woman  the 
mistress  of  Quest  had  turned  out  to  be.  Lisbeth's  grave  and 
dignified  manner  obliged  the  visitor  to  behave  with  extreme 
civility ;  for  there  was  a  look  about  Lisbeth  as  of  one  who 
would  not  suffer  any  rudeness  either  to  herself  or  to  her 
friends.  And  Mrs.  Creighton  was  still  more  favourably  in- 
clined when  she  heard  that  Lisbeth  had  insisted  on  handing 
over  to  Alys  her  share  of  the  money  left  by  Mr.  Lorimer; 
so  that  Edmund's  wife  would  have  at  least  a  hundred  and 
fifty  of  her  own  as  pin-money,  and  need  not  trouble  him 
about  her  frocks.  Mrs.  Creighton  was  the  sort  of  person 
who  thought  it  absolutely  criminal  for  a  woman  to  be  pen- 
niless. 

She  succeeded  in  offending  Lisbeth  completely,  in  spite 
of  her  condescending  approval.  For  she  persisted  in  call- 
ing Lisbeth  "  Miss  Lorimer,"  and  no  remonstrances  from 
Edmund  would  induce  her  to  change  this  mode  of  address. 

"  My  dear  Edmund,  she  is  Miss  Lorimer.  Why  should 
she  not  use  her  own  name  ?  " 

"  She  has  always  been  known  as  Verrall." 

"  Absurd !  It  sounds  as  if  the  marriage  had  not  been  all 
right.  No,  she  must  be  known  as  Miss  Lorimer  when  she 
comes  up  to  London :  it  is  not  respectable  to  call  her  any- 
thing else.1' 


A   MARRIAGE  DAY.  249 

And,  much  to  Lisbeth's  disgust,  Mrs.  Creighton  would 
not  be  persuaded  to  address  her  as  Miss  Verrall. 

One  good  result  of  Mrs.  Creighton's  approval  of  Lisbeth 
was  that  Julian  was  allowed  to  come  and  see  her  as  often  as 
she  chose. 

"  Such  a  sensible,  superior  person,1'  said  Julian's  mother 
"  could  never  do  her  any  harm."  But  she  might  have  al- 
tered her  opinion  if  she  could  have  heard  a  conversation  that 
took  place  one  afternoon  when  Alys  was  out  with  Edmund, 
and  Julian  had  found  Lisbeth  all  alone. 

The  wedding  was,  of  course,  the  chief  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. It  was  to  be  a  very  quiet  one ;  but  Julian,  like  every 
other  girl,  was  interested  in  the  choice  of  Alys's  wedding- 
gown,  and  her  own  attire  as  bridesmaid.  There  was  to  be 
no  other  bridesmaid ;  for  Lisbeth  had  refused  the  office,  say- 
ing that  she  was  too  old  for  it,  and  that  it  would  become  her 
better  to  fill  the  place  of  parent  or  guardian,  and  give  the 
bride  away. 

"  I  have  been  bridesmaid  once  before,"  said  Julian. 
"  This  is  the  second  time,  '  Three  times  a  bridesmaid,  never 
a  bride,'  is  the  old  saying." 

"  Is  it  true,"  said  Lisbeth,  rather  abruptly,  "  that  you  are 
already  engaged  ? " 

An  angry  spot  showed  itself  on  Julian's  cheek.  "  Cer- 
tainly not,"  she  said,  emphatically.  UI  suppose  mamma 
told  you  that  ? " 

uShe  said  something  of  the  kind,  I  think." 

"  It  is  quite  untrue.  I  hate  the  man.  I  will  never  marry 
him— -never." 

"  Is  he  not  a  man  you  could  care  for  ?  " 

"No;  he  is  odious.  You  don't  think  it  right  to  marry  a 
man  you  don't  love,  do  you  ? " 

"No,  indeed.  I  should  think  it  worse  than  sacri- 
lege." 

Julian  meditated  for  a  moment  or  two.  "  So  that  is  why 
you  approve  of  Alys's  marriage,"  she  said,  shrewdly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  impertinent.     I  did  not  mean  to  be. 


250  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

But  every  one  knows  that  Alys  was  engaged — or  half-en- 
gaged—to poor  Mr.  Frank  Moor " 

"  She  did  not  love  him,"  Lisbeth  broke  out,  in  tremulous 
tones.  "  Yes,  it  is  far  better  for  her  to  marry  a  man  she 
loves_even  at  the  cost  of  her  own  faithfulness — and  a 
man's  broken  heart " 

She  stopped  abruptly.    She  had  not  meant  to  say  so  much. 

"I  know— I  understand,"  said  Julian,  turning  away  so 
as  not  to  see  the  tears  in  Lisbeth's  eyes. 

"  Some  women  would  have  loved  a  man  all  the  more  be- 
cause he  was  unfortunate,"  Lisbeth  went  on,  hurriedly. 
"  They  would  have  felt  the  more  bound  to  him  in  his  dis- 
grace—but Alys  did  not  see  things  in  that  light." 

"  You  would  have  done  it  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes— I " 

And  there  Lisbeth  stopped.  There  was  a  little  silence, 
and  by  some  newly-developed  womanly  instinct  Julian 
knew  that  Lisbeth  had  loved  and  was  still  faithful  to  the 
man  whom  Alys  had  deserted  in  the  hour  of  his  need. 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  Lisbeth's,  and  said  nothing  for 
a  time.  When  she  spoke  she  did  not  dare  to  make  any 
allusion  to  Francis  Moor,  so  she  pursued  the  train  of  her 
own  thoughts. 

"  It  would  be  the  same  if  a  man  were  poor,  I  suppose," 
she  said  softly.  "  Poor  and— what  the  world  calls— lower 
in  position  than  oneself.  If  one  loved  him,  that  would  not 
matter,  would  it  ? " 

"  Nothing  would  matter  if  one  really  loved,"  said  Lis- 
beth. "Love  is  the  best  and  noblest  thing  in  the  world. 
The  only  blessedness  is  to  love  and  to  be  loved." 

And  so  strong  was  her  conviction  on  this  point  that  she 
did  not  reflect  that  it  might  be  dangerous  doctrine  for  a 
young  lady  of  nineteen. 

Sooth  to  say,  Julian  was  having  a  hard  time  of  it.  Her 
mother  had  espoused  Sir  Harry  Glossop's  cause,  and  encour- 
aged him  in  every  way.  He  came  frequently  to  the  house, 
and  paid  assiduous  court  to  Julian,  who  was  not  suffered  by 
her  parents  entirely   to  reject  his  attentions.     Even    her 


A  MARRIAGE   DAY.  251 

father,  usually  very  indulgent  to  her,  was  displea.sed  by 
what  seemed  to  him  like  needless  obstinacy;  and  her  moth- 
er became  daily  more  cold  and  severe  in  her  behaviour. 
Julian  shed  many  a  tear  in  secret,  but  did  not  once  swerve 
from  her  decision.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
would  not  marry  Sir  Harry  Glossop ;  and  her  mother's  cold- 
ness, her  father's  displeasure,  her  brother's  remonstrances, 
had  no  more  effect  upon  her  than  the  unwelcome  wooing 
of  the  suitor  himself.  The  only  person  who  openly  sympa- 
thised with  her  was  Lady  Maria,  who,  much  to  Julian's  sur- 
prise, told  her  that  she  was  perfectly  right,  and  that  she 
might  do  much  better  than  become  Lady  Glossop,  a  paltry 
baronet's  wife. 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  better :  I  only  want  to  be  let  alone," 
said  Julian. 

uAh,  my  dear,  that's  all  very  well;  but  I  have  great 
hopes  for  you,"  said  Lady  Maria,  nodding  her  curled  and 
feathered  head.  "You  are  a  good  girl,  and  if  you  stand  to 
your  colours,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  you."  And  she 
looked  so  mysterious  that  Julian  could  hardly  withhold  her- 
self from  asking  point-blank  what  she  meant. 

Meanwhile  the  wedding-day  drew  on  apace.  Edmund 
looked  radiant,  and  Alys  seemed  to  tread  on  air.  Looking 
at  them  both,  Lisbeth  sometimes  drew  a  long  breath  of  un- 
comprehending amazement.  Her  own  nature  was  so  true 
and  strong  that  she  could  not  understand  how  people  man- 
aged to  forget.  Here  was  Alys,  who  had  given  up  the  man 
she  once  professed  to  love,  and  who  cared  not  although  he 
was  in  prison,  and  under  a  dark  cloud  of  sorrow  and  dis- 
grace. She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  very  existence. 
How  was  it  possible,  thought  Lisbeth,  that  such  forgetful- 
ness  should  be  ? 

She  did  not  know  it,  but  she  was  not  able  always  to  keep 
the  silent  reproach  out  of  her  grave,  dark  eyes.  Alys  felt 
it  in  spite  of  herself.  She  had  not  forgotten  the  past:  she 
only  wanted  to  forget  it;  and  Lisbeth's  tender  and  solemn 
looks  sometimes  made  her  remember  more  than  she  cared 
to  do. 


252  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Lisbeth  always  looks  at  me  as  if  I  were  doing  wrong 
when  I  am  enjoying  anything,1'  she  once  said  petulantly  to 
Edmund. 

"Never  mind  her,  darling:  she  does  not  mean  it,"  he 
answered,  caressing  her.  But  in  very  truth  Lisbeth's  eyes 
sometimes  made  him  uncomfortable  too. 

Notwithstanding  their  apparent  joy  and  prosperity, 
there  was  a  touch  of  bitterness  in  the  heart  of  bride  and 
bridegroom  alike.  Edmund  knew  well,  although  he 
would  not  have  confessed  it  for  the  world,  that  he  had 
kept  silence  when  his  testimony  might  have  counted  in 
Frank  Moor's  favour  ;  and  Alys  was  not  unaware  that 
her  evidence  had  helped  the  jury  in  their  decision  as  to 
Frank's  guilt.  She  told  herself  that  she  had  only  spoken 
truth,  but  she  had  spoken  as  an  enemy,  she  knew,  not  as  a 
friend. 

The  wedding  day  was  one  of  brilliant  sunshine.  Alys 
looked  very  lovely  in  her  white  silk  dress,  her  lace  veil  (Lis- 
beth's gift)  and  orange  blossoms ;  and  Julian  made  a  charm- 
ing bridesmaid.  Lisbeth  was  gravely  magnificent  in  a 
brocade  which  Edmund  himself  had  chosen  for  her;  and 
although  there  were  no  guests,  and  few  congratulations,  the 
ceremony  was  felt  to  be  very  successfully  performed.  Ed- 
mund snatched  a  few  days  from  his  numerous  engagements 
to  take  his  bride  to  Paris ;  but  it  was  agreed  that  the  orthodox 
month  should  be  postponed  to  August,  when  he  could  better 
spare  the  time  to  be  away. 

Alys  did  not  break  down  till  the  very  last  moment. 
Then,  just  when  she  had  donned  her  travelling-dress,  and 
stood  with  Lisbeth  for  one  last  moment  before  she  left  the 
house,  her  self-possession  failed  her.  She  cast  her  arms 
round  Lisbeth's  neck,  and  sobbed  for  a  minute  or  two  upon 
her  breast.  No  one  but  Lisbeth  heard,  however,  the  words 
she  said — 

"Forgive  me,  Lisbeth!  And  ask  Frank  to  forgive  me, 
too.  I  am  sorry — indeed,  I  am — but  I  could  not  love  him, 
and  I  could  never  have  been  his  wife." 

And  in  Frank's  name  Lisbeth  kissed  her,  and  forgave. 


A  MISSING  VOLUME.  253 

Next  day  she  went  back  to  Quest,  and  did  not  see  Alys  again 
until,  in  the  darkest  hours  of  her  life,  Alys  sent  word  to  her 
to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  MISSING  VOLUME. 

The  season  was  almost  over.  Sir  Harry  had  not  relaxed 
his  pursuit,  and  Julian's  resolve  had  not  given  way.  She 
began  to  wonder,  however,  whether  she  should  be  able  to 
hold  out  to  the  end.  For  her  sister's  pertinacity  worried 
her,  and  her  parents'  displeasure  did  not  tend  towards  peace 
and  quietude  in  the  home.  Mrs.  Creighton  was  beginning 
to  threaten  her  with  positive  punishment,  in  the  shape  of  an 
enforced  sojourn  with  some  uninteresting  relatives  in  the 
heart  of  the  country  during  the  summer  months;  but,  un- 
fortunately, Julian  felt  that  a  visit  of  this  kind  would  be  a 
delightful  reprieve,  and  was  therefore  by  no  means  impressed 
with  a  suitable  horror  of  it. 

Lady  Maria  was  going  out  of  town,  and  greatly  wanted 
to  take  Julian  with  her;  but  Mrs.  Creighton  refused  to  let 
the  girl  accept  the  invitation.  "  I  don't  trust  that  Lady 
Maria,"  she  said  in  private  to  her  husband.  "  I  don't  believe 
she  wants  Julian  to  make  a  good  marriage.  I  am  quite 
certain  that  she  is  upholding  Julian  in  her  obstinacy  about 
Sir  Harry." 

But  she  could  not  refuse  an  invitation  for  Julian  to  dine 
at  Lady  Maria's  house  shortly  before  the  end  of  July.  "  It's 
not  a  party,"  the  old  lady  said.  "  One  or  two  old  friends  of 
mine — that  is  all.     But  I  should  like  Julian  to  come." 

And  Julian  went. 

As  Lady  Maria  had  said,  it  was  no  party.  There  were 
two  old  friends  of  hers  at  the  table,  whom  Julian  had  not 
seen  before;  a  staid  old  gentleman  and  his  wife,  who  prosed 
intolerably.  Julian  wondered  why  she  had  been  asked  to 
come.  It  seemed  a  little  odd  that  no  younger  person  should 
17 


254  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

have  been  invited;  and  Lady  Maria  did  not  talk  much  to 
her.  After  dinner,  she  was  asked  to  sing,  and  did  her  best 
to  keep  the  three  old  folks  awake ;  but  they  all  nodded,  and 
the  old  gentleman  positively  snored.  Even  Julian  herself 
felt  inclined  to  yawn. 

Suddenly  Lady  Maria  roused  herself,  and  spoke  in  an 
exceedingly  sprightly  voice — 

"Julian,  my  dear  child,  there  is  something  I  want  you 
to  do  for  me.  Do  go  down  to  the  library,  and  see  if  you 
can  hunt  up  the  missing  volume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison. 
It's  the  third  volume,  and  I  fancy  it  must  be  on  one  of  the 
lower  shelves.     You  won't  mind,  will  you,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  look  for  it,"  said  Julian, 
with  alacrity.  Almost  anything  was  better  than  sitting 
silently  in  the  dull  drawing-room,  while  the  three  old  people 
dozed.  Julian  wondered  more  than  ever  why  she  had  been 
asked  to  come. 

She  made  her  way  to  the  library,  where  she  found  a  lamp 
already  lighted  and  began  her  search  for  the  missing  volume. 
Up  and  down  the  shelves  she  looked,  but  with  no  result. 
And  when  a  tap  came  to  the  door,  she  was  so  busy  that  she 
hardly  lifted  her  head  to  say  "  Come  in."  Probably  it  was 
one  of  the  servants,  coming  to  tell  her  that  tea  was  ready  in 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Creighton,"  said  a  man's  voice— a 
voice  she  knew.  And  looking  round  with  a  start,  she  found 
that  the  visitor  was  none  other  than  her  old  friend  Mr.  l'Es- 
trange,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  some  little  space  of  time. 
She  came  forward  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and  explained 
what  she  was  looking  for. 

"  Yes,  so  Lady  Maria  told  me.  She  sent  me  to  help  you," 
said  Mr.  l'Estrange,  in  his  pleasant,  kindly  way. 

Julian  might  have  thought  this  strange,  if  she  had  not 
by  this  time  been  pretty  well  accustomed  to  Lady  Maria's 
slightly  eccentric  ways. 

'kI  don't  believe  the  book  is  here,"  she  said.  "I  have 
looked  very  carefully.  But  perhaps  you  will  be  more  suc- 
cessful than  I." 


A  MISSING  VOLUME.  255 

It  did  not  seem  as  if  he  were  likely  to  prove  so.  The 
book  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  And  presently  the  two  fell 
into  friendly  converse,  and  the  search  became  a  little  per- 
functory, interrupted  by  snatches  of  laughter  and  talk  which 
each  of  them  found  pleasant.  Julian  forgot  that  Lady  Ma- 
ria might  wonder  what  she  was  doing,  and  probably  Mr. 
l'Estrange  did  not  mind. 

u  And  how  are  you  getting  on  ?  I  have  not  seen  you  for 
a  long  time,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  almost  paternal  interest, 
which  he  sometimes  adopted  towards  the  girl.  u  Are  things 
going  well  with  you  ? " 

"Pretty  well." 

11 1  suppose  it  would  be  rude  to  say  that  you  do  not  look 
as  if  a  London  season  had  altogether  agreed  with  you." 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  you  did.  I  do  not  like  a 
London  season,  if  I  am  to  take  this  as  a  specimen." 

"  It  has  had  more  disagreeables  than  pleasures  ? " 

"  Decidedly  more." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then— "  Miss  Creigh- 
ton,  may  I  ask  you  a  question  ? " 

"Certainly." 

"  You  will  not  be  offended  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  not." 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  that  you  are  going  to  marry  Sir  Harry 
Glossop?" 

"  No,  indeed  it  is  not." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  The  rumours  reached  my  ears,  and 
— I  was  surprised." 

"  Why  were  you  surprised  ? "  said  Julian,  bending  her 
head  as  if  to  look  more  attentively  at  the  book-shelves. 

"  I  did  not  think  that  Sir  Harry  was  quite  the  man  whom 
you  would  like.     But  perhaps  I  am  impertinent." 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  Julian  with  quivering  lip.  Then, 
while  her  eyes  filled  with  irrepressible  tears,  she  added 
quaintly,  "  It  is  just  that  which  makes  the  disagreeables." 

"  I  thought  so.  Of  course,  every  one  knows  that  he  de- 
sires it.     He  makes  no  secret  of  his  intentions." 

"  So  I  have  been  told.     Yet  he  knows  quite  well " 


256  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  Knows  that  you  do  not  like  him  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  why  does  he  persist  ? " 

"  My  father  and  mother  wish  it,"  said  Julian,  in  a  very 
low  voice. 

"  But  surely  in  these  days  they  do  not  urge  it  when  you 
dislike  the  man." 

"  They  can't  force  me  to  accept  him,  of  course.  But  they 
try  to — persuade  me." 

"That  must  be  very  unpleasant,"  said  Mr..l'Estrange. 

"  It  is  horrible,"  said  Julian.  And  although  she  turned 
aside  her  face,  he  was  sure  that  she  was  crying. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said  after  a  short  pause,  in  a  very  gentle 
voice,  "  that  your  life  is  not— not— so  happy  as  it  perhaps 
might  be." 

"It  is  miserable,"  said  Julian  passionately.  This  prof- 
fered sympathy  unlocked  her  heart.  "  My  mother  cannot 
see  why  I  should  not  accept  him ;  she  is  disappointed  and 
vexed,  and  she  will  uot  let  the  subject  drop.  I  suppose  it  is 
natural  from  her  point  of  view.  But  it  makes  me  very  un- 
happy." 

"  Still,  you  do  not  mean  to  yield  ? " 

"Never." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  help  you,"  said  Mr.  l'Estrange. 

There  was  a  curious  thrill  in  his  voice.  For  some  reason 
or  other,  Julian's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  when  he 
spoke,  then  throbbed  violently,  so  that  her  breath  grew  short. 
She  remembered,  too,  all  that  he  had  said  about  his  own  sad 
story,  and  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  unshed  tears  again. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  possible  ?  "  he  asked,  still  in  that 
strange  low  voice  which  had  an  odd  effect  on  Julian's 
nerves.  "  I  am  much  older  than  you,  but  I  think  I  under- 
stand you — I  believe  that  I  could  make  you  happy.  If  you 
would  but  trust  your  future  in  my  hands " 

The  world  went  round  with  Julian.  What  was  he  say- 
ing ?  There  was  a  rushing  sound  in  her  ears;  she  gasped 
actually  for  breath.  As  in  a  dream  she  heard  him  ask  her 
to  be  his  wife. 


A  MISSING  VOLUME.  257 

"  I  would  do  my  utmost  to  guard  you  and  give  you  all 
that  you  desire,"  he  was  saying.  "  Of  course  I  know  the 
drawbacks,  I  know  my  own  limitations,  I  am  many  years 
your  senior,  and  perhaps  you  would  never  care  for  an  old 
fellow  like  me." 

Then  she  found  words.  "  It  is  not  age  that  matters,"  she 
said;  "but  that  you  love— you  have  loved " 

"  That  love  died  years  ago,"  he  said.  "  The  only  love  I 
have  now  is  my  love  for  you,  Julian.  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  My 
dear,  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  hold  it  back,  feeling  that  it  was 
absurd  for  me  to  hope ;  but  now  that  I  have  broken  my  silence, 
you  must  let  me  tell  you  that  I  can  honestly  say  I  have  never 
loved  before  as  I  love  you,  Julian,  as  I  shall  love  you  to  the 
last  day  of  my  life." 

There  was  a  silence.  Julian  was  standing  against  the 
bookshelves,  with  one  hand  shadiug  her  eyes.  There  was  a 
conflict  raging  in  her  soul.  She  did  care  for  this  man,  yes,  sbe 
was  sure  of  that ;  but  she  felt  convinced  that  her  choice  of  him 
would  cause  a  terrible  breach  between  herself  and  her  family. 
Her  mother  and  father  would  never  consent  to  her  marrying 
an  obscure  artist,  poor  perhaps,  and  unknown.  Could  she 
fight  them  for  his  sake  ? 

"  Could  you  care  for  me,  Julian  ? "  his  gentle,  musical 
voice  was  saying.  "  In  spite  of  all  my  disadvantages,  do  you 
think  that  you  could  give  me  a  little  love  ?  You  don't  know 
how  I  have  longed  for  it,  how  starved  my  heart  has  been. 
Nobody  shall  be  loved  more  than  you  are  loved,  dear,  if  you 
will  be  my  wife." 

The  girl  took  her  hand  away  from  her  eyes,  and  looked 
at  him.  Then  she  made  a  step  toward  him,  and  held  her 
hands  out;  he  needed  no  other  answer,  no  other  invitation, 
in  a  moment  he  had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on 
the  lips. 

"  Are  you  sure  ? "  he  said  presently,  in  a  wistful  tone. 
"  You  think  you  really  can  like  me,  Julian  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  sure  I  can." 

"I  am  ever  so  much  older  than  you.  I  believe  I  am 
turning  grey." 


258  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  not.  And  what  does  it  matter  if  you 
are  ? " 

"  And  what  will  your  friends  say  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  they  will  he  very  angry,"  said  Julian ;  "but  I 
do  not  see  how  I  can  help  it." 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  pressed  her  closer  to  him  with  his 
arm. 

"  Does  your  mother  know  of  my  existence  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Julian,  blushing.  "  She  told  me  if  I  met  you 
I  had  better  not  speak  to  you." 

u  Why  ? " 

"She  thought  I  had  better  not  continue  to  know  any- 
body that  I  had  known  at  Crosthwaite.  And — an  artist,  you 
see " 

"You  don't  mind  my  being  poor  and  unknown,  do  you, 
Julian  ? " 

"  Not  one  bit." 

"  You  wrould  never  leave  me  for  a  richer  man  ?  " 

"  I  hate  rich  men.     I  always  wanted  to  be  poor." 

"  Even  to  live — let  us  say — in  a  cottage,  and  make  your 
own  frocks  ?  I  remember  it  was  your  aspiration  once  upon 
a  time.     Do  you  hold  to  it  still  ?  " 

"More  than  ever." 

He  laughed  delightedly,  and  kissed  her  once  again. 
And  he  was  still  holding  her  and  gazing  into  her  eyes, 
when  the  door  was  thrown  opened,  and  Lady  Maria  hob- 
bled into  the  room.  Julian  tried  to  start  away;  but  her 
lover  held  her  fast,  and  turned  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his 
hostess. 

"  Young  people !  young  people ! "  said  Lady  Maria. 
"  What  does  all  this  mean,  I  should  like  to  know  ? " 

"It  means  that  Julian  is  going  to  be  my  wife,  Aunt 
Maria, — that  is  true,  is  it  not,  Julian  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Maria !  "  Julian  whispered,  turning  very  pale. 
"  What  did  he  mean  ?  " 

Lady  Maria  nodded,  "That's  right,"  she  said.  "Come 
and  kiss  me,  my  dear  niece !  Didn't  you  know  he  was  my 
nephew  ?    Ah,  I  always  said  that  you  were  a  clever  little 


A  MISSING  VOLUME.  259 

girl  to  have  taken  Raynflete's  heart  by  storm.  Plenty  of 
people  have  tried,  I  can  tell  you;  but  you  are  the  first  that 
had  a  chance." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Why  do  you  call  him— his  name 

is " 

"  His  name,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Maria,  chuckling,  "  is 
John  l'Estrange,  Lord  Raynflete;  and  I  think  even  your 
mother  may  be  content  to  forego  young  Glossop,  when  her 
daughter  has  made  the  match  of  the  season." 

"Forgive  me,  clear,"  said  Raynflete,  penitently,  as  Julian 
tore  herself  away,  and  gazed  at  him  with  something  like 
horror  in  her  great  eyes.  u  I  never  meant  to  deceive  you  so 
long.  It  began  in  a  mistake  and  then  it  drifted  on.  Even 
if  I  am  not  the  poor  artist  that  you  thought  me,  you  can 
love  me  a  little  still,  can  you  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  know,  how  could  you  ?  If  I  had 
thought "  and  Julian  stopped,  confounded  by  this  sud- 
den change  of  fortune. 

"  It  makes  no  real  difference,  does  it  ? "  he  said,  looking 
down  into  her  sweet  startled  face.  '•  I  am  the  same  man, 
after  all." 

"  But  you  can't  give  me  a  cottage  to  live  in,"  said  Julian, 
recovering  herself  a  little,  and  laughing  to  hide  the  fact  that 
tears  were  in  her  eyes.  "  And  I  should  dearly  like  to  make 
my  own  frocks." 

'*  Come  up  to  the  drawing-room  and  have  some  tea,"  said 
Lady  Maria.  a  Love-making  is  very  thirsty  work.  Julian, 
dear,  I  hope  you  are  obliged  to  me  for  sending  you  down  to 
look  for  the  third  volume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison.  Curi- 
ously enough,  I  found  it  in  the  drawing-room,  just  after  you 
had  gone." 

"  Then  did  Lady  Maria  know  all  about  it  ?  "  said  Julian, 
half  reproachfully,  as  she  followed  her  hostess  upstairs. 

"I  took  her  into  my  confidence  some  time  ago,  dear. 
You  have  been  followed  so  closely  by  Sir  Harry,  that  I 
thought  the  season  would  go  by  without  my  being  able  to 
speak  to  you.  So,  at  last,  I  persuaded  her  to  ask  you  to  din- 
ner to-night." 


2G0  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  It  was  very  wrong  and  unkind  of  you,"  said  Julian. 
"  Suppose  I  had  been  wicked,  and  refused  you  because  you 
were  poor." 

u  1  knew  you  too  well  to  fear,  darling.  I  knew  that  you 
would  choose  love  even  with  poverty,  rather  than  riches  and 
lovelessness.  You  were  too  noble,  too  brave,  too  strong  to 
choose  the  lower  path." 

"  You  showed  me  the  way,"  Julian  murmured ;  and  she 
turned  upon  him  a  look  of  love  and  gratitude,  which  he 
could  only  answer  by  a- kiss. 

There  were  no  difficulties  in  Julian's  way.  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton  capitulated  at  once,  and  threw  Sir  Harry  over  with  the 
utmost  shamelessness  as  soon  as  she  learned  the  name  and 
station  of  her  daughter's  new  suitor.  Edmund  had  already 
enlightened  her  as  to  his  identity ;  and  she  had  been  content 
that  Julian  should  talk  to  him ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  matters  had  gone  so  far,  or  that  he  was  on  the  point  of 
declaring  himself.  Henceforth,  the  course  of  true  love 
could  not  have  run  more  smoothly. 

Julian  was  a  little  displeased  at  the  pleasure  displayed  by 
her  relations,  and  the  congratulations  which  she  received 
from  all  the  world. 

"  I  quite  regret  the  poor  artist,"  she  said  to  her  lover  more 
than  once  in  a  plaintive  tone.  uHe  came  up  to  my  ideal  far 
more  nearly  than  you  can  ever  do." 

Raynflete  laughed. 

tk  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  gratify  your  love  of  poverty,"  he 
said. 

u  I  will  tell  you  what  we  will  do,"  said  Julian.  "  We  will 
at  any  rate  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  we  are  rich.  We  can 
do  that  if  we  use  all  we  have  as  a  trust  for  others  rather  than 
for  ourselves,  can  we  not  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  could  ever  excuse  my- 
self for  being  richer  than  my  neighbours,"  he  answered, 
whimsically.  But  there  was  sound  and  sober  earnestness 
behind  his  smile,  and  Julian  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
that  the  man  whom  she  had  chosen  would  be  her  guide  and 
her  helper  in  everything  that  was  high,  noble,  and  of  good 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS.  261 

report.  It  was  the  best  possible  basis  for  mutual  love ;  and 
possibly  explained  the  fact  that  in  after  years,  the  case  of 
Lord  and  Lady  Raynflete  was  often  cited  as  an  instance  of 
perfect  happiness  in  marriage. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

AFTER  TWO   YEARS. 

Two  years  may  seem  a  long  time  to  think  of  beforehand, 
but  it  passes  very  rapidly  and  counts  for  little  in  the  retro- 
spect. Two  summers,  two  winters,  had  passed  away  since 
Francis  Moor  was  sentenced  to  the  expiation  of  a  crime, 
which  was  a  crime  surely  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  only,  and 
not  in  the  eyes  of  God;  and  the  day  was  drawing  near  when 
he  should  be  set  free  to  begin  his  life  over  again  with  tar- 
nished reputation  and  a  sullied  name.  How  would  he  face 
it  ?  how  would  he  set  himself  to  life  and  work  ?  with  such  a 
terrible  weight  behind  him— a  weight  of  humiliating  mem- 
ories, of  an  undying  grief.  Lisbeth  used  to  sit  and  dream 
over  his  future  when  her  day's  work  was  done,  but  she  never 
came  to  any  satisfactory  conclusion  about  his  fate. 

She  was  very  much  alone  at  Quest.  Even  the  old  aunt 
had  died,  and  there  was  no  one  whom  she  felt  it  a  duty  to 
tend  and  love.  Her  grandparents  were  gone,  Zadock  was 
gone;  Alys  was  married;  Frank  was  in  prison,  she  was  ut- 
terly alone.  She  had  few  friends  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
she  shut  herself  up  at  Quest  more  than  ever,  now  that  her 
friends  were  dead  or  gone  away.  True,  her  life  was  a  busy 
one,  and  she  worked  hard,  and  kept  others  at  work  on  the 
farm  and  in  the  dairy,  but  why  she  did  this,  nobody  knew. 
It  was  suggested  to  her  once  or  twice  that  she  had  much  bet- 
ter give  up  the  farm  and  live  on  the  money  that  her  grand- 
father had  bequeathed  to  her  in  a  quiet  way;  but  the  sug- 
gestion was  never  made  twice  by  the  same  person.  Lisbeth 
had  a  way  of  looking  the  speaker  down  which  was  apt  to 


262  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

discomfort  any  but  the  boldest  men.  She  never  answered 
in  words;  indeed  she  had  nothing  to  say.  She  could  not 
very  well  explain  that  she  was  staying  at  Quest  so  that 
Frank  Moor  might  know  where  to  find  her  when  he  came 
home  again. 

The  only  place  where  she  visited  was  Moor  End.  To  her 
surprise,  perhaps  to  her  pleasure— Lady  Adela  had  sent  for 
her,  soon  after  her  return  from  London,  after  Alys's  mar- 
riage. She  went  at  once.  Lady  Adela  welcomed  her  like 
an  old  friend.  The  mother  was  very  worn,  very  sad,  very 
much  depressed ;  her  eyes  had  almost  failed  her  from  long 
weeping,  and  her  manner  had  lost  all  its  stateliness  and 
frigidity.  It  was  Lisbeth  now  who  was  the  statelier  lady  of 
the  two. 

In  the  few  short  letters  that  she  received  from  Alys,  Lis- 
beth learned  that  she  was  well  and  happy  in  her  new  home. 
Happy  in  the  main,  although  there  was  now  and  then  a 
touch  of  apparent  discontent  or  mournfulness  which  Lisbeth 
could  not  altogether  understand.  She  put  it  down  to  Alys's 
habit  of  slight  dissatisfaction  with  her  surroundings,  and 
also  to  a  certain  delicacy  of  health  now  making  itself  felt. 
When  Alys's  child  was  born,  Lisbeth  felt  sure  that  she 
would  write  more  cheerfully;  and  she  wished  now  and  then, 
with  a  sort  of  jealous  pain,  that  Alys  would  summon  her  to 
her  side. 

But  Alys  did  not  seem  disposed  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind.  Her  hour  came  and  went;  a  beautiful  little  girl  was 
born  into  the  world,  and  the  young  mother  wrote  a  raptur- 
ous letter  in  praise  of  her  baby  daughter's  beauty.  Lisbeth 
rejoiced— yet  laid  down  the  letter  with  the  old  feeling  of  be- 
wilderment of  misgiving. 

"  Does  she  not  feel  ?  Does  she  never  remember  ?  Is  it 
true  that  people  may  be  shallow  and  fickle  and  false,  and 
yet  enjoy  perfect  happiness  ?  I  could  never  be  happy  again 
if  I  had  gone  through  Alys's  experiences,"  said  Lisbeth,  with 
the  sore,  sick  sensation,  of  which  every  earnest  nature  is  at 
times  conscious,  when  the  puzzles  of  this  life  baffle  it  at  every 
turn. 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS.  263 

She  was  more  pleased  with  Julian's  letters  than  with 
Alys's.  Julian  wrote  to  her  regularly ;  for  she  and  her  hus- 
band had  a  great  respect  for  the  mistress  of  Quest,  and  liked 
to  hear  from  her.  It  did  Lisbeth  good  to  read  Julian's  let- 
ters. They  were  like  herself,  frank,  free,  vivacious,  thor- 
oughly sincere  and  earnest;  and  they  told  of  what  Julian 
called  "  real  things,"  work  done  for  a  purpose,  help  given 
to  others,  honest  endeavour  to  benefit  the  world.  They 
came  to  Lisbeth  like  a  healthy  mountain  breeze,  showing 
her— if  she  needed  showing— what  married  life  could  be. 

Now  and  then  Julian  gave  her  a  word  of  news  respect- 
ing Alys.  "  I  went  to  see  my  sister-in-law  this  morning," 
she  wrote  one  day.  "She  looked  very  pretty,  but  rather 
more  delicate  than  I  expected.  I  think  she  and  Edmund  go 
out  too  much ;  I  hear  of  nothing  but  dinners  and  dances, 
and  evening  amusements  of  all  kinds.  Perhaps  you  could 
give  her  a  word  of  advice,  for  I  am  sure  she  is  over-doing  it. 
The  baby  is  a  very  pretty  child,  but  Alys  has  not  time  to  see 
much  of  her.  There  is  a  beautiful  nursery,  and  a  very  good 
nurse  in  charge;  so  the  poor  little  mite  is  by  no  means  neg- 
lected, but  if  I  were  Alys,  I  do  not  think  I  should  like  to  be 
out  so  much." 

To  Lisbeth's  mind  this  was  an  ominous  letter.  Could 
Alys  be  turning  into  a  fashionable  fine  lady,  too  grand  to 
look  after  her  own  little  girl  ?  She  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
letter  of  remonstrance,  but  tore  it  up.  After  all,  what  could 
she  say  ?  She  had  heard  nothing  that  she  could  reasonably 
object  to.  Alys  was  fond  of  going  out,  and  the  nurse  looked 
after  the  baby.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Yet  all 
through  the  spring  days  after  the  arrival  of  that  letter,  Lis- 
beth was  haunted  by  a  fear.  Lady  Adela  sent  for  her  a  day 
or  two  later.  Lisbeth  always  went,  whenever  Frank's 
mother  intimated  a  desire  for  her  presence.  She  found  Lady 
Adela  sitting  with  a  letter  in  her  hand  and  a  flush  on  her 
cheek,  which  told  Lisbeth  something  important  had  occurred. 

"  Come  in,  Lisbeth.  Sit  down,  my  dear.  I  have  a  letter 
here — a  letter  from  my  son.  There  is  one  from  the  governor 
too.     He  is  coming  out,  Lisbeth;  he  is  coming  home." 


264  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  about  this  time,''  said  Lisbeth. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  him,  Lisbeth  ?  What  am  I  to 
say  to  him  ?  He  seems  so  dejected,  so  broken-down.  He 
will  never  care  for  his  life  here  again,  yet  what  is  he  to  do  ? " 

Lisbeth  sat  silent;  she  had  no  answer  ready  yet. 

"  I  am  sure  of  one  thing/'  said  Lady  Adela,  with  nervous 
rapidity  ;  k*  he  must  be  soothed,  comforted,  made  to  feel  that 
here  at  least  we  think  no  ill  of  him.  I  shall  lead  him  to  see 
that  this  is  his  true  refuge,  his  harbour  of  safety  and  peace. 
If  I  can  keep  him  for  a  time  from  all  sad  associations,  from 
all  reminder  of  the  past,  he  may  recover  his  feeling  of  hope, 
his  strength  for  further  effort— do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

Lisbeth  looked  at  the  delicate,  anxious  face,  turned  ap- 
pealingly  to  hers  with  eyes  that  could  scarcely  see,  and 
answered  gently — 

"  It  might  be  a  good  thing,  if  it  could  be  done.  But  how 
can  he  be  kept  from  sad  associations  ? " 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,  dear  Lisbeth,  there  is  at  least  one  thing  that 
can  be  done.  Yet  how  can  I  say  it,  when  you  have  always 
been  so  good  and  kind  ?  But  the  saddest  of  all  associations 
will  cling  about  Quest — and  you." 

uYou  mean,"  said  Lisbeth  clearly,  but  in  a  very  low 
voice,  "  that  I  had  better  come  here  no  more  ? " 

"  Lisbeth,  Lisbeth,"  the  mother  repeated,  as  if  she  did  not 
know  what  more  to  say ;  and  then  she  put  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Don't  cry — it  is  so  bad  for  your  eyes,"  said  Lisbeth, 
quietly.  "  Indeed,  there  is  nothing  to  fret  about,  Lady  Adela. 
I  quite  understand.  I  will  not  come  while  Mr.  Moor  is  here. 
If  ever  he  should  be  away,  you  will  perhaps  let  me  come 
and  see  you,  once  in  a  while." 

"It  seems  so  ungrateful.  I  know  you  did  everything 
you  could  for  my  poor  boy;  but  I  am  sure  he  will  feel  it 
deeply  if  he  sees  you  here,"  said  Lady  Adela.  "You  will 
not  mind.     You  are  not  offended,  Lisbeth  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  understand  perfectly,"  said  Lisbeth, 
in  her  stateliest  way.  "You  must  not  trouble  yourself 
about  it  at  all,  Lady  Adela.     Do  you  know  that  the  flowers 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS.  265 

in  your  vases  are  nearly  empty  ?  I  am  going  into  the  gar- 
den to  cut  some  more,  and  I  will  make  your  room  look  very 
nice.'1 

She  passed  into  the  garden  by  a  side  door,  with  a  firm 
step,  and  a  head  held  high ;  but  when  she  was  out  of  sight 
and  out  of  hearing,  her  head  sank,  and  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  It  was  a  little  hard,  after  all,  she  knew  better  than 
his  mother  how  to  deal  with  Frank.  She  feared  lest  he 
would  take  her  absence  as  a  sign  that  she  had  lost  her 
friendliness  for  him,  for  he  might  hear  that  she  had  con- 
stantly visited  his  mother  while  he  was  away.  Besides,  had 
he  not  promised  to  come  to  Quest  when  he  returned  ?  It 
was  a  little  hard  to  feel  that  Lady  Adela  still  looked  on  her 
as  an  interloper  and  an  enemy.  Lisbeth  had  hoped  to  gain 
the  place  at  least  of  a  friend. 

But  she  controlled  herself  after  her  usual  fashion,  told 
herself  that  she  was  selfish,  and  came  back  to  Lady  Adela 
with  dry  eyes  and  smiling  lips,  as  well  as  an  armful  of  flow- 
ers. She  arranged  her  treasures  of  hyacinth  and  daffodil  as 
well  as  she  was  able,  read  aloud  a  little  while  to  Lady  Adela, 
and  then  took  her  leave,  feeling  that  she  was  saying  goodby 
to  Moor  End  for  ever.  She  would  never  go  back  again— not 
even  if  Lady  Adela  sent  for  her— she  said  bitterly  to  herself. 

She  walked  home  rapidly,  full  of  passionately  sorrowful 
and  angry  thoughts ;  but  all  these  thoughts  were  laid  to  rest 
when  she  reached  Quest  by  the  intrusion  of  another  element 
of  love  and  fear. 

The  telegraph  boy  had  been  to  Quest.  His  visits  were  so 
rare  that  Lisbeth  tore  open  the  orange-coloured  envelope 
with  a  strange  sensation  of  dread.  And  as  she  let  the  thin 
pink  paper  drop  from  her  hand,  she  felt  as  if  her  worst  fore- 
bodings had  been  realised. 

"  Miss  Verrall, 

"  Quest, 

"  Crosthwaite. 
"  Come  to  Alys  at  once,  if  you  possibly  can. 

"  Edmund  Creightox." 


2G6  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

lie  had  not  said  why.  But  he  would  not  have  tele- 
graphed in  that  way  if  there  had  not  been  trouble  in  the 
house. 

Lisbeth  looked  out  the  next  train  in  the  time-table. 
There  was  one  at  eight  o'clock,  she  would  reach  London 
before  seven  next  morning.  It  was  a  slow  train,  but  she 
could  not  help  that;  it  was  the  only  one  there  was.  She 
collected  a  few  things  together  and  put  them  into  a  bag; 
she  gave  orders  to  her  servants,  and  wrote  down  some 
memoranda  on  paper  for  their  use,  then  she  set  off  to  walk 
to  the  station  in  her  vigorous  energetic  way.  One  of  the 
servants  ran  after  her  with  a  packet  of  sandwiches  and  a 
flask;  in  her  haste  she  had  forgotten  to  eat,  and  would  have 
no  chance  of  a  meal  again  for  many  hours. 

Lisbeth  felt  that  she  did  not  want  the  food,  something 
seemed  to  rise  within  her  against  it ;  but  she  would  not  dis- 
appoint the  kindly  maid-servant,  so  she  put  the  parcel  and 
the  flask  inside  her  bag.  The  stable  boy  wanted  to  carry  it 
for  her,  and  she  let  him;  she  had  always  had  a  liking  for 
that  boy  since  the  days  when  he  was  Zadock's  servant  and 
friend. 

How  terribly  long  and  dreary  that  journey  to  London 
seemed  !  She  could  not  sleep,  and  her  mind  revolved  in 
endless  iteration  the  things  that  might  have  occurred.  "Was 
Alys  ill  ?  Probably ;  but  why  had  Edmund  Creighton  not 
said  so  ?  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  child— but  Lisbeth  was 
startled  at  the  thought  that  in  trouble  of  this  kind  Alys 
should  turn  to  her.  She  had  not  expected  it.  Alys  had 
seemed  to  go  a  great  way  off  from  her  as  soon  as  she  was 
married. 

The  London  streets  looked  dim  and  ghastly  in  the  early 
morning  light,  as  Lisbeth  drove  through  them  in  a  cab.  It 
was  a  bad  sign,  she  thought,  that  nobody  was  at  the  station 
to  meet  her.  She  had  telegraphed  that  she  was  coming,  so 
that  they  knew  when  she  would  arrive.  She  made  the  best 
of  her  way  to  the  pretty  little  house  on  Campden  Hill,  which 
Edmund  had  had  such  delight  in  furnishing  for  his  pretty, 
delicate  bride. 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS.  207 

The  house  had  no  prettiness  apparent  now.  It  was  still 
shuttered  and  closed ;  there  was  a  carriage  standing  at  the 
gate.  The  doctor's  carriage — Lisbeth  was  sure  of  that.  She 
went  up  the  path  to  the  front  door,  and  rang  as  softly  as 
she  could.  The  door  was  opened  almost  immediately  by  a 
woman,  whose  eyes  were  red  with  crying,  and  whose  di- 
shevelled, capless  state  proved  the  disorganisation  of  the 
household.  Lisbeth  could  not  speak,  she  looked  dumbly  at 
the  woman,  who  answered  with  a  sob — 

"  She's  still  living,  ma'am,  they  say ;  and  would  you  go 
up  at  once,  or  will  you  have  some  breakfast?" 

"  I'll  go  up  at  once,"  Lisbeth  managed  to  say.  "  She  was 
still  living  ?  Who  was  she  ?  Alys  ?  her  little  sister  whom 
she  had  loved  ? " 

The  house  was  very  still.  Lisbeth  was  induced  to  drink 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and  she  asked  no  more  questions,  indeed,  she 
was  afraid  to  ask.  The  maid  evidently  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  knew,  for  she  proffered  no  information.  And  so, 
at  last,  Lisbeth  was  led  upstairs. 

She  was  not  taken  to  Alys's  bedroom ;  this  was  a  sur- 
prise, and  even  a  relief  to  her.  She  was  conducted  to  the 
nursery,  the  pretty,  bright,  light  room  which  she  had  been 
shown,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  before  the  days  of  Alys's 
marriage.  "  A  spare  room,"  she  had  been  told ;  "  but  if  ever 
we  want  a  nursery,  you  know " 

The  scene  came  back  to  her  quite  vividly  as  she  mounted 
the  stairs;  she  seemed  to  see  the  pretty  blush  and  smile  with 
which  Alys  had  whispered  the  words  so  that  no  one  else 
should  hear. 

In  the  nursery,  a  little  group  had  gathered  round  a 
baby's  cot.  The  doctor  stood  beside  it,  grave  and  profes- 
sional; at  his  side  was  Edmund  Creighton,  very  pale,  with 
a  look  of  great  oppression  upon  his  brow.  A  maid  was 
audibly  weeping  in  the  background.  But  Alys,  where  was 
Alys  ?    Lisbeth  didn't  see  her  at  first. 

Alys  had  thrown  herself  down  on  her  knees  beside  the 
little  cot.  Her  hands  were  clasped  before  her,  her  face  was 
white  as  death  itself — white  as  the  little  baby  face  that  lay 


208  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

on  the  bed  before  her.  But  worse  to  Lisbeth  than  its  white- 
ness was  its  terrible  rigidity.  A  horror  seemed  to  have 
fallen  upon  it,  which  had  not  the  look  of  ordinary  grief. 
There  was  something  more  than  the  agony  even  of  the 
woman  who  loses  her  first-born  child.  If  Alys  had  looked 
like  this  the  day  before,  when  the  telegram  had  been  des- 
patched, Lisbeth  did  not  wonder  that  they  had  sent  for 

her. 

Edmund  Oeighton  saw  her  first.  He  started  slightly, 
and  moved  a  step  from  the  bedside,  as  though  to  make  room 
for  her.  But  she  shook  her  head,  and  went  round  to  the 
other  side,  where  Alys  knelt.  She  put  her  hand  on  Alys's 
shoulder,  and  waited  for  some  response.  But  Alys  made 
none.  With  fixed,  colourless  features,  and  motionless  limbs, 
she  knelt  and  looked  at  the  face  of  her  child  as  if  she  were 
unconscious  of  anything  beside. 

Lisbeth  also  looked  at  the  child.  It  was  plain  that  she 
had  been  a  beautiful  child,  with  her  delicate  little  features, 
her  soft  rings  of  golden  hair,  the  long  dark  lashes  that  lay 
upon  the  waxen  cheek.  But,  although  the  limbs  were  not 
wasted  with  long  disease,  there  was  a  look  upon  that  little 
face  which  showed  that  life  was  well-nigh  gone,  if  not  in- 
deed departed.  There  were  strange  violet  shadows  about 
the  eyes  and  round  the  little  mouth,  the  soft  little  features 
were  pinched  and  sunken.  Lisbeth's  experience  of  the  sick 
told  her  that  hope  was  already  over.  She  looked  at  the 
doctor,  and  read  the  same  verdict  in  his  face.  She  looked 
at  the  father,  and  saw  that  he  knew  the  truth.  And  then 
she  glanced  at  Alys,  and  saw,  to  her  inward  anguish,  an 
expression  that  told  of  passionate  hope  still  existing  be- 
neath the  semblance  of  blank  despair. 

The  doctor  bent,  raised  the  little  hand,  and  put  it  gently 
down  again.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  father.  Edmund  put 
his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  turned  away.  Even  at  that 
hour,  Lisbeth  was  surprised  to  see  him  so  much  moved. 

But  Alys  still  knelt  on,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  child's 
face.  The  doctor  said  a  word  to  Mr.  Oeighton,  but  he 
shook  his  head,  and  stood  with  his  back  turned  to  the  cot 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS.  269 

and  to  his  wife.     Then  the  doctor  looked  at  Lisbeth,  as  if  he 
read  the  promise  of  help  in  her  strong  and  tender  face. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  said  m  a  low  tone. 

"  Alys,  my  darling,  come  with  me,  will  you  not  ? "  said 
Lisbeth. 

But  Alys  took  no  notice. 

Lisbeth  knelt  beside  her,  and  folded  the  slight  form  in 
her  arms. 

"She  is  quite   well  and  happy  now,"  she  murmured. 
"You  can  do  nothing  for  her,  dearest;  she  has  gone  to  her' 
Father  in  heaven." 

Then  Alys  raised  herself  and  spoke. 

"Dead? "she  said  hoarsely;  and  Lisbeth  did  not  know 
that  it  was  the  first  word  she  had  spoken  for  four  and 
twenty  hours.     "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

She  read  assent  in  Lisbeth's  grieving  face. 

Then  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and  stretched  out  her  hands 
with  a  loud  and  bitter  cry.  "Oh,  my  child,  my  baby- 
dead!  And  I  have  killed  her— I— her  mother— a  mur- 
deress ! " 

Lisbeth  caught  her  as  she  fell.  She  was  carried  senseless 
to  her  room,  where  she  lay  for  hours  between  life  and  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

MRS.    CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ? "  Lisbeth  asked  the  doctor. 

He  drew  in  his  lips. 

"  It  is  a  little  difficult  to  say.  There  seems  to  have  been 
a  mistake  on  Mrs.  Creighton's  part.  She  came  home  from 
a  dinner  party,  went  to  the  nursery,  and  thought  that  she 
would  give  the  child  some  medicine  that  I  had  ordered. 
She  unfortunately  mistook  the  bottles,  and  gave  a  strong 
opiate  which  Mr.  Creighton  had  been  taking  on  account  of 
long-continued  sleeplessness  and  neuralgia.  The  child  was 
18 


270  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

unable  to  rally — in  fact,  the  dose  would  have  endangered 
the  life  of  an  adult." 

uMy  sister  was  not  to  blame,"  said  Lisbeth  quickly. 
She  was  struck  by  something  that  seemed  to  savour  of  dis- 
approval in  Dr.  Parfitt's  tone. 

"  Oh,  certainly  not ;  it  was  a  misadventure,"  he  replied 
with  great  promptness.  "  I  shall  have  no  hesitation  in  stat- 
ing that  fact  at  the  inquest." 

"  There  must  be  an  inquest !  "  said  Lisbeth,  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  yes,  no  doubt  of  that.  What  else  could  you  ex- 
pect ? " 

*'  My  poor  Alys !     It  will  be  such  a  trial  to  her !  " 

"  Mrs.  Creighton  is  your  step-sister,  I  believe,  Miss  Ver- 
rall,"  said  the  doctor,  cautiously. 

"Yes." 

"  May  I  speak  frankly  to  you  about  her  ?  n 

"Most  certainly." 

"  It  will  be  a  little  difficult,"  said  the  doctor,  who  was  a 
kindly  man  at  heart,  "  to  prevent  Mrs.  Creighton  from  accus- 
ing herself  too  wildly  of  culpable  carelessness.  She  is  her- 
self inclined  to  think  that  she  had  neglected  the  child ;  and 
it  must  be  our  endeavour,  Miss  Verrall,  to  prevent  her  from 
having  an  access  of  hysterical  self-reproach,  which  would 
be  extremely  painful  to  every  one  concerned." 

Lisbeth's  face  expressed  consternation. 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  she  was  neglectful  ? "  she  breathed 
rather  than  spoke. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  in  the  least.  Only  that  she  thinks  so. 
And  of  course— well,  she  knows  that  she  acted  against  my 
advice  in  going  out  so  much :  but  that  was  more  for  her 
own  sake  than  for  the  child's,"  said  the  doctor,  with  some 
reserve. 

"  I  see,"  said  Lisbeth,  sadly.  She  was  beginning  to  un- 
derstand Alys's  extreme  prostration  of  body  and  mind.  At 
present  even  she  was  kept  out  of  the  room,  only  the  doctor 
and  nurse  were  admitted,  therefore  she  had  leisure  to  hear 
the  different  versions  of  the  story  with  which  she  was  met 
on  all  sides. 


MRS.   CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS.  271 

The  truth  seemed  to  be  that  Alys  had  gone  out  a  great 
deal  in  the  evenings— more  than  the  doctor  had  thought  ad- 
visable—and that  the  servants  had  grown  careless  during 
the  absence  of  their  mistress.  The  nurse  had  left  the  baby 
in  charge  of  a  younger  girl,  while  she  herself  went  out  to  a 
party;  the  maid  had  fallen  asleep,  and  when  Alys  came 
home  she  was  alarmed  to  find  the  child  crying  pitifully,  in 
evident  pain,  with  no  experienced  person  beside  it  to  minis- 
ter to  its  wants.  In  haste  and  trepidation,  she  had  attempted 
to  give  a  simple  remedy,  had  mistaken  the  bottle  in  a  little 
medicine  chest,  and  had  given  the  wrong  dose. 

"  And  what  has  become  of  the  nurse  ? r  Lisbeth  asked. 

"Nurse  has  never  come  back  since  the  morning  after 
baby  was  taken  ill,"  said  the  nursemaid,  who  had  poured 
some  of  these  details  into  her  ear.  "  She  came  home  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  thinking  she'd  slip  in  without 
anybody  seeing  her;  and  when  she  found  the  servant  up, 
and  heard  from  the  page-boy  what  had  happened,  she  just 
ran  upstairs  for  some  of  her  things  and  walked  straight  out 
of  the  house,  without  so  much  as  a  by  your  leave,"— and 
the  girl  waxed  indignant,  as  she  told  the  story—"  nor  wait- 
ing to  see  how  it  would  turn  out,  nor  nothing.  Eeal  heart- 
less, I  call  it." 

"  I  suppose  she  wTas  afraid,"  said  Lisbeth,  more  to  herself 
than  to  the  girl ;  and  then  she  went  once  more  to  Alys's 
room  to  know  if  there  was  any  change,  and  finding  none, 
wandered  down  to  the  drawing-room,  when,  to  her  moment- 
ary surprise,  she  found  Mrs.  Creighton,  senior,  in  animated 
discourse  with  her  son.  She  bestowed  a  curt  greeting  upon 
Lisbeth,  and  then  returned  to  what  she  had  been  saying, 
while  Edmund  courteously  offered  a  chair  to  his  guest. 

Lisbeth  had  time  to  look  at  him  now.  She  saw  that  he 
had  a  very  harassed  expression,  but  she  put  that  down  to 
the  influence  of  present  circumstances.  What  struck  her 
more  than  this  expression  of  face  was  his  leanness  and  the 
way  in  which  his  hair  was  thinning  at  the  temples.  He 
looked  ten  years  older  than  when  he  had  married  Alys,  and 
the  trouble  of  the  last  two  days  did  not  altogether  account 


272  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

for  the  change  in  his  appearance.     Lisbeth  wondered  invol- 
untarily whether  the  marriage  had  been  a  happy  one. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Creighton  flowed  on  in  voluble  speech. 

"  I  always  told  you  that  she  was  going  out  a  great  deal 
too  much.  It  seems  to  me,  Edmund,  that  you  made  a  great 
mistake  in  allowing  it.  Alys  was  always  nervous  and  deli- 
cate ;  she  got  thoroughly  overdone,  and  this  is  the  result 
—  your  poor  child  is  dead  under  most  peculiar  circum- 
stances." 

"Under  such  trying  and  painful  circumstances,1'  said 
Lisbeth,  interposing— she  scarcely  knew  why— "  that  I  am 
sure  they  had  better  not  be  discussed  until  Alys  herself  is 
able  to  tell  us  how  it  all  happened.1' 

Mrs.  Creighton  put  up  her  eye-glass,  and  surveyed  the 
speaker  with  a  look  of  insolent  amaze.  Miss  Verrall  was 
all  very  well  in  her  place ;  she  was  good-looking  and  fairly 
well  off;  but,  really,  was  she  justified  in  trying  to  silence 
her  superiors  ?  All  this  was  expressed  by  the  poise  of  Mrs. 
Creighton's  eye-glass ;  which,  however,  Lisbeth  was  far  too 
simple  to  understand. 

Edmund  turned  to  her  with  a  sudden  look  and  gesture  of 
relief. 

"  You  are  quite  right,'1  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  he  tried  to 
make  natural,  but  which  had  a  dreary  and  broken  sound, 
"and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  suggestion.  Let 
the  matter  rest,  mother,  until  Alys  is  able  to  speak,  I  beg  of 
you.  I  should  be  glad  myself,"  he  added,  gloomily,  "  not  to 
hear  another  word  upon  the  subject." 

He  walked  straight  out  of  the  room  as  he  spoke  and  shut 
the  door  behind  him.  Mrs.  Creighton  rose  in  a  white  heat 
of  anger  and  spoke  indignantly. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  a  stranger  interfering 
between  mother  and  son,"  she  said,  "  and  I  was  not  prepared 
for  such  treatment  in  this  house.  May  I  ask,  Miss  Lo rimer, 
why  I  am  not  to  speak  to  Edmund  concerning  the  death  of 
my  poor  neglected  grandchild  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,"  said  Lisbeth,  quietly.  "  You  are,  of 
course,  at  perfect  liberty  to  speak ;  but  I  thought  that  as  Alys 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS.  273 

was  not  here,  and  as  she  is  the  chief  person  concerned,  it  might 
be  better  to  wait  until  she  could  speak  for  herself,  before  we 
talked  over  the  state  of  her  health,  which  seemed  to  be  the 
matter  under  discussion  when  I  came  in." 

u  I  shall  speak  to  my  son  in  private,"  said  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton,  with  her  loftiest  air.     "  I  see  your  motive." 

"  My  motive  was  love  to  my  sister,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"A  desire  to  screen  her,  no  doubt." 

'•  Screen  her  ?  There  is  nothing  to  screen.  She  has  been 
very  unfortunate,  that  is  all." 

"  Oh,  of  course, — unfortunate.  It  is  unfortunate  when  a 
woman  is  not  responsible  for  her  actions;  but  means  have 
to  be  taken  against  a  repetition  of  such  occurrences." 

Lisbeth  rose  to  her  feet.  She  was  in  a  white  heat,  too. 
"  May  I  ask  what  you  mean  ?  "  she  said. 

"  My  meaning  is  plain  enough,"  answered  Mrs.  Creigh- 
ton,  with  a  jarring  laugh.  "  I  don't  think  there  is  much 
doubt  about  it.     I  shall  speak  to  Dr.  Parfitt  myself." 

"  About  Alys  ?  She  is  under  his  care  already.  There  is 
surely  no  need  for  you  to  concern  yourself,  Mrs.  Creighton. 
She  has  a  husband  and  a  sister  to  stand  by  her." 

"  Even  a  husband  and  a  sister  cannot  always  avail  to 
keep  a  madwoman  out  of  a  lunatic  asylum,"  said  Mrs. 
Creighton,  drawing  her  skirts  round  her  as  if  she  were 
afraid  of  encountering  Lisbeth's  slightest  touch;  "and  I 
warn  you  that  you  will  be  incurring  a  very  heavy  responsi- 
bility if  you  try  to  prevent  her  from  being  put  under  proper 
restraint." 

"  Alys  mad !  It  is  absurd,"  said  Lisbeth,  contemptuously. 
"  I  should  sooner  think  you  mad  yourself  to  suggest  such  a 
thing."  She  was  quite  too  angry  to  remember  the  claims  of 
courtesy  towards  Edmund's  mother  at  that  moment.  "A 
mistake  of  the  kind  she  made  could  be  made  by  the  sanest 
person  in  the  world." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stand  by  while  she  makes  it  again  in 
a  different  direction,"  said  Mrs.  Creighton,  with  decision. 
"  Good  morning,  Miss  Lorimer.  I  am  going  to  find  my  son 
and  to  give  him  my  views.  His  father,  I  may  say,  quite  agrees 


274  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

with  me.  We  shall  find  some  way  of  calling  attention  to 
our  opinion." 

She  swept  out  of  the  room,  and  Lisbeth  remained  alone, 
a  prey  to  various  and  conflicting  emotions,  of  which  anger 
was,  perhaps,  the  chief.  To  think  that  Alys— the  gentle, 
fragile-looking  Alys — should  be  exposed  to  the  shafts  of 
malice  which  this  woman  was  evidently  delighted  to  let  fly! 
To  think  that  she  could  ever  be  branded  with  the  name  of 
madwoman!  The  thought  was  so  ludicrous  to  Lisbeth's 
mind,  that,  even  in  that  sad  hour,  in  that  house  of  mourning, 
she  laughed  aloud. 

She  was  left  long  enough  for  her  anger  to  die  down,  and 
be  succeeded  by  overwhelming  anxiety.  What  was  Mrs. 
Creighton  doing  now  ?  To  whom  was  she  speaking,  and 
whose  mind  was  she  poisoning  ?  Lisbeth  almost  made  up  her 
mind  to  go  and  seek  her  out,  and  try  to  countervail  her  evil 
influence;  but  she  came  at  last,  sadly  enough,  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  would  do  more  harm  than  good.  Mrs. 
Creighton's  position  as  Edmund's  mother  gave  her  a  pres- 
tige which  Lisbeth  could  not  hope  to  dispute.  She  could 
but  wait  and  see  what  steps  were  best  and  wisest  for  her  to 
take. 

While  she  was  meditating  on  the  subject,  the  door 
opened,  and  Edmund  himself  came  in.  His  air  of  lassitude 
was  more  marked  than  ever;  and  Lisbeth  was  again  struck 
by  the  absence  of  that  cool  elasticity  of  manner  and  bearing 
which  had  been  his  characteristic  in  the  days  of  old.  What 
was  it,  she  found  herself  asking  mentally,  that  had  changed 
him  so  ? 

He  entered  silently,  took  a  chair  and  sat  down,  leaning 
his  elbow  on  the  table  near  him,  and  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

"  I  suppose  you  talked  to  my  mother,"  he  began,  with 
a  depressed  intonation. 

"  She  talked  to  me,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"  Ah !    And  what  do  you  think  ? " 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  ask  ? " 

"That  is  just  the  point."    And  Lisbeth  saw  that  the 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS.  275 

mother's  words  were  already  bearing  bitter  fruit.  "  It 
would  be  a  terrible  tiling  if  —  if— Alys's  brain— were  af- 
fected." 

"  I  think  that  the  suspicion  is  a  very  cruel  result  of  an 
accident  that  might  happen  to  any  body,"  said  Lisbeth,  clearly 
and  decidedly. 

"  Yes ;  if  that  were  the  only  thing,"  said  Edmund,  in  a 
dull  whisper. 

"  Why— what  else  is  there  ?  "  And  for  a  moment  Lis- 
beth's  heart  stood  still. 

Edmund  took  his  hand  away  from  his  eyes,  and  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  groan.  "I  don't  know 
what  it  is.  Ever  since  we  were  married  she  has  changed. 
She  is  not  like  the  same  woman.  Sometimes  she  has  drooped 
and  pined,  and  almost  refused  to  speak  for  days  together ;  at 
others  she  has  been  unnaturally  gay  and  lively,  feverishly 
anxious  for  amusements,  and  ready  to  sacrifice  every  thing 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  hour.  •  She  was  in  this  latter  mood 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  the  child  was  taken  ill.  I 
wanted  her  to  stay  at  home,  but  she  refused,  although  she 
seemed  worn  out  by  fatigue." 

"  I  see  no  particular  sign  of  brain  disease  in  all  that," 
said  Lisbeth. 

"  Perhaps  not.  What  do  you  see,  then  ? "  he  asked 
quickly.  Then  as  she  was  silent,  he  continued  almost  vehe- 
mently, "  I  have  my  own  theory;  let  me  see  whether  yours 
tallies  with  mine.  It  is  no  use  beating  about  the  bush  or 
standing  on  ceremony.     For  God's  sake,  speak  out. " 

"I  was  afraid  I  might  hurt  you,"  said  Lisbeth,  tenderly; 
"  and  I  did  not  want  to  do  that.  I  will  say  what  I  really 
think;  it  does  not  sound  to  me  as  if  she  were  a  happy 
woman." 

"  That  is  it.  That  is  exactly  what  I  have  said  to  myself. 
But  why  should  she  not  be  happy  ?  " 

"  Happiness,"  said  Lisbeth,  trying  to  find  refuge  from 
perplexity  in  an  aphorism,  "  is  more  a  matter  of  constitu- 
tion than  of  circumstances." 

"  She  had  everything  to  make  her  happy,"  said  Edmund, 


276  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

shaken  completely — as  Lisbeth  noticed — out  of  his  com- 
placent belief  in  himself  and  his  powers;  "everything  she 
wanted  in  the  house,  in  dress,  in  jewels,  in  all  that  is  sup- 
posed to  content  women.  I  love  her — I  do  everything  I  can 
think  of  to  make  her  happy.  She  has  nothing  to  complain  of 
from  me.  Then  there  was  the  child — the  prettiest  little 
creature  in  the  world.  I  cannot  understand  it,"  he  said, 
getting  up  and  beginning  to  pace  the  room  with  knitted 
brows  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground.  u  I  cannot  under- 
stand it— though,  perhaps,  one  should  never  hope  to  under- 
stand a  woman." 

uAlys  was  not  always  very  easy  to  understand,"  said 
Lisbeth,  slowly. 

"  No ;  that  was  partly  what  attracted  me  to  her,"  he  said, 
turning  to  her  eagerly.  "  In  spite  of  her  apparent  gentle- 
ness and  simplicity,  there  was  something  complex,  some- 
thing fine  and  subtle  in  her  nature,  which  I  used  to ^f eel  I 
could  not  grasp.  When  I  married  I  thought  I  should  get 
hold  of  this  strange  elusive  quality,  but  it  always  escapes 
me.  She  '  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame  as  a  peach  late  basking 
over  a  wall,'  to  use  a  well-worn  quotation,  but  she  has  not 
given  me  herself." 

'*  Then  she  could  not  be  happy.  A  woman  always  longs 
to  give  herself."  Edmund  looked  at  her.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  face  which  he  did  not  like  to  put  into  words. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said  at  last,  so  slowly  and  reluctantly 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  words  were  being  forced  from  him 
against  his  will,  "do  you  think,  that  she  cared  more,  cared 
really — for  that  other  man  ?  " 

Lisbeth  uttered  a  low  cry  of  pain  and  horror. 

"What!  Care  for  him— and  marry  you?"  she  said, 
with  an  intensity  of  feeling  which  he  had  never  thought  of 
producing  by  his  question.  "What  do  you  take  her  for? 
She  is  your  wife.  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  She  is  not  a 
wicked  woman." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  instinctively;  and  then  he 
turned  away,  and  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  with  his 
back  to  her,  and  both  his  hands  over  his  eyes.     Lisbeth's 


MRS.  CREIGHTON'S  SUGGESTIONS.  277 

heart  smote  her;  the  man  was  really  in  trouble,  and  she  had 
thrown  hack  his  question  in  his  teeth  as  if  it  had  been  in- 
tended as  an  insult. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  harshly,"  she  said  in  a  softer 
tone;  "  but  I  cannot  believe  that  Alys  could  do  anything  so 
heartless,  and  so  base,  as  to  abandon  the  man  she  loved  for 
the  sake  of  the  man  whom  she  did  not  love." 

''Women  do  it  every  day,"  said  he  gloomily.  "Alys 
was  brought  up  in  our  world.  She  is  not  a  country  girl, 
unsophisticated,  ignorant  of  life.  She  belongs  to  the  set 
she  moves  in,  and  I  do  not  know  why  she  should  not  be 
happy." 

"Perhaps  you  have  vexed  her— disappointed  her— alien- 
ated her  in  some  way  ?  "  said  Lisbeth,  gravely. 

"  Then— upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  know  how,"  he  answered, 
with  some  heat. 

"  I  told  you— she  had  had  no  cause  to  complain.  But  her 
change  towards  me  has  been  inexplicable,  and  I  can  only 
account  for  it " 

"  By  charging  her  with  madness  ?  That  seems  like  an 
excess  of  self-esteem,  does  it  not  ?  " 

He  faced  her  sharply.  "  It  is  not  so— not  in  the  least. 
It  is  not  because  she  is  cold  to  me  that  I  fear  for  her  mind — 
that  would  be  ridiculous  indeed— but  because  of  a  general 
change  in  her;  because  of  these  alternate  fits  of  excitement 
and  apathy,  and  because  of  an  occasional  confusion  of 
thought  which  I  have  remarked  in  her." 

"  Thinking  this — knowing  this — why  did  you  let  her  give 
medicine  to  your  child  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  as 
much  to  blame  as  she." 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  he  answered  with  unaccustomed  meek- 
ness, "perhaps  I  am;  I  do  not  know.  But  it  was  an  acci- 
dent; neither  of  us  can  be  blamed." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  gathering  cold- 
ness. "  But— it  is  not  so  very  long  ago  since  you  persuaded 
her  that  an  accident  was  an  unpardonable  offence." 

"  Do  you  think  I  need  reminding  of  that  ? "  he  asked, 
with  greater  bitterness  than  she  had  expected  to  hear.    "  All 


278  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

that  one  can  say  is  that,  in  that  case  the  law  was  on  our  side. 
But  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  making  the  gibe." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  a  gibe,"  she  answered  him  earnestly. 
"  I'm  too  sorry  for  you  both  to  say  an  unkind  word.  Only 
do — do  not — be  so  ready  to  think  that  my  poor  Alys  is  out 
of  her  mind.     I  cannot  believe  that." 

"  You  would  be  more  ready  to  believe  that  she  was  mis- 
erable, because  she  did  not  love  me,"  he  asked  with  a  smile, 
which  seemed  to  her  a  very  mournful  one. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  boldly;  "for  she  might  learn  to 
love  you  in  course  of  time,  whereas  madness  would  make 
her  incapable  of  learning." 


CHAPTEE  XXXIV. 

RETRIBUTION. 

The  relation  of  Edmund's  troubles  added  to  Lisbeth's 
perplexities.  She  did  not  quite  see  her  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  situation.  On  the  one  hand,  Mrs.  Creighton 
suggested  that  Alys  was  going  mad;  on  the  other,  Edmund 
seemed  to  think  that  she  was  sane  enough,  but  intensely 
miserable.     And  how  was  Lisbeth  to  judge  of  the  truth  ? 

After  the  first  few  terrible  hours,  when  Alys's  life  and 
reason  seemed  to  hang  in  the  balance,  Lisbeth  was  admitted 
to  her  room,  and  sat  silently  beside  her,  holding  the  tiny 
white  hand  in  her  own,  and  earnestly  wishing  that  she  could 
soothe  that  troubled  heart.  But  at  present  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done.  Alys  was  not  allowed  to  talk,  and  did  not  seem 
to  wish  to  do  so.  She  lay  perfectly  still,  and  would  only 
with  great  difficulty  be  induced  to  swallow  medicine  or  food. 
Once  or  twice  she  pushed  it  away,  and  broke  out  into  a  piti- 
ful wail. 

"Oh,  let  me  die— let  me  die!  I  would  sooner  die  with 
my  baby.     Let  me  die." 

But  she  was  too  weak  to  resist  when  her  nurses  continued 


RETRIBUTION.  279 

to  press  restoratives  upon  her.  So  the  first  and  the  second 
day  passed;  and  on  the  second  day  the  inquest  upon  the 
little  child's  body  had  to  take  place. 

Alys  could  not  of  course  attend  it:  but  the  doctor  allowed 
her  to  make  a  short  statement  or  deposition  which  was  read 
to  the  jurymen,  who  at  once  passed  a  resolution  expressing" 
their  sympathy  for  the  unhappy  mother,  and  giving  the 
expected  verdict  of  "Death  by  misadventure."  The  whole 
thing  was  conducted  very  quietly,  with  as  little  pain  as  pos- 
sible to  the  family ;  not  a  word  was  uttered  on  the  subject 
of  Alys's  rumoured  failure  of  mind,  and  the  only  expression 
of  censure  was  one  passed  upon  the  missing  nurse,  who  had 
never  reappeared.  Lisbeth  felt,  in  a  vague  way,  as  if  a 
danger  had  been  averted ;  the  thing  that  now  chiefly  troubled 
her  was  Alys's  extraordinary  apathy,  for  she  lay  as  if  un- 
conscious of  what  was  happening  around  her,  and  had  only 
been  aroused  to  gasp  out  the  few  words  descriptive  of  her 
fatal  mistake  in  the  manner  of  one  whose  faculties  were 
sleeping  or  benumbed. 

But  the  inquest  was  over,  and  Lisbeth  was  still  watching 
at  Alys's  bedside  when  a  step  came  to  the  door,  and  halted 
— as  if  not  knowing  whether  to  proceed  or  not.  Lisbeth 
hardly  noticed  it,  but  she  suddenly  became  aware  that  Alys's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  and  dilated  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  horror  and  fear. 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  leaning  forward 
and  speaking  low. 

"  Edmund — it  is  Edmund — at  the  door,"  said  Alys,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  shall  I  let  him  in  ?  " 

"No;  keep  him  away." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  him,  dear  ?  He  is  so  lonely  and 
sad." 

"  No;  keep  him  away."  Then,  with  an  effort, — "  He  will 
never  forgive  me  for  killing  baby." 

"  Darling ! " 

"Keep  him  away,"  said  the  young  wife,  lifting  her  head 
for  a,  moment  from  the  pillow,  and  showing  a  hectic  spot  of 


280  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

colour  on  each  thin  cheek.  "  I  can't  see  him— I  can't — I  am 
afraid." 

Lisbeth  went  reluctantly  to  the  door,  almost  believing 
that  Alys's  ear  had  been  mistaken;  but  on  going  out  into 
the  dimly-lighted  passage,  she  saw  that  Edmund,  pale  as 
a  ghost,  was  indeed  standing  outside  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"  Did  you  want  me  ? "  she  said,  instinctively,  although  he 
had  not  knocked. 

"  I  wanted  to  give  you  this,"  he  answered,  holding  out 
the  letter.     u  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ? " 

"She  heard  you." 

"  She  is  sensible  then  ?    I  may  go  in." 

**  I  think  you  bad,  perhaps,  better  not.  She  does  not  want 
— visitors,"  said  Lisbeth,  searching  about  for  words  which 
would  not  wound  him  over  much. 

"  You  mean  she  does  not  want  me  ? " 

"  She  is  afraid,  poor  child.  She  thinks  you  will  reproach 
her." 

"  Let  me  go  in,  just  to  tell  her  that  nothing  in  the  world 
would  affect  my  love  for  her." 

Was  it  Edmund  who  was  speaking  ?  The  roughened 
utterance,  the  agitated  manner,  were  not  those  of  the  pol- 
ished, agreeable  man  of  the  world  whom  Lisbeth  had  known 
hitherto.  Was  the  man's  real  nature,  or  whatever  was  truest 
and  best  in  it,  breaking  through  the  artificial  surface  of 
veneer  ? 

"I  do  not  think  you  had  better,"  said  she,  much  per- 
plexed. "  She  is  in  a  very  weak  state,  and  any  excitement 
would  make  her  feverish.  I  will  tell  her,  if  you  like,  what 
you  say." 

lk  Yes,  tell  her,"  said  Edmund,  turning  away;  "but  I  sup- 
pose it  is  of  no  use.  If  she  had  ever  cared  for  me,  things 
would  have  been  different  now." 

And  Lisbeth  could  not  deny  the  truth  of  his  remarks. 

The  nurse  was  with  Alys,  so  she  thought  it  better  to  open 
her  letter  by  the  light  of  the  gas  lamp  in  the  passage  than 
to  read  it  in  the  sick  room.     As  she  looked  at  the  envelope, 


RETRIBUTION.  281 

a  thrill,  a  shot  of  mingled  pleasure  and  pain,  seemed  to  pass 
through  all  her  veins.    Whose  writing  was  on  the  envelope  ? 
Was  it  not  that  of  Francis  Moor  ?    And  was  not  Francis 
Moor  by  this  time  a  free  man  ? 
She  opened  and  read. 

"Lisbeth,"  the  letter  ran,  "I  have  kept  my  promise.  I 
have  been  to  Quest.  I  said  I  would  not  go  away.  I  would 
not  sever  myself  from  every  bond  in  life  without  going  to 
Quest  again.  I  wish  you  had  been  there.  But  I  have  kept 
my  word. 

"  I  spoke  to  one  of  the  labourers— a  new  man,  I  think, 
who  did  not  know  me,  and  he  told  me  that  you  had  gone  to 
your  sister's  in  London.  I  did  not  know  her  address,  and  I 
would  not  ask  for  it— very  likely  he  could  not  have  told  me 
if  I  had  asked.  I  had  already  written  to  my  mother,  telling 
her  not  to  expect  me  at  Moor  End.  If  she  cared  to  meet  me 
in  Liverpool  to  say  good-bye  to  me  before  I  sailed  for  Amer- 
ica, I  should  be  glad.  I  fixed  a  date,  a  place,  a  time,  for  that 
meeting— it  is  still  a  week  hence.  I  have  kept  my  word  to 
you,  and  gone  back  once  more  to  Quest;  but  you  were  not 
there,  and  I  will  never  again  go  home. 

"  I  meant,  on  leaving  Quest,  to  go  at  once  to  Liverpool, 
and  wait  there  for  my  boat.  But— I  don't  know  why- 
something  drew  me  to  London— to  you— to  her.  I  came 
yesterday,  and  took  a  quiet  lodging  in  Bloom sbury.  The 
first  newspaper  I  took  up  this  morning  gave  me  her  address, 
and  told  me  why  you  had  gone  to  London  just  when  I  was 
coming  back  to  Quest.  I  see  now  why  I  came ;  it  was  that 
I  might  be  near  you  in  this  trouble,  and  might  even  learn 
from  you  how  she — who  could  not  endure  that  the  man  she 
loved  should  have  the  stain  of  blood  upon  his  hand— how 
she  bears  the  knowledge  that  she  has  killed  her  own  child. 
Possibly  she  does  not  care. 

"But  I  must  know.  I  shall  not  leave  London  until  I 
know.  If  you  can  see  me,  send  a  line  to  the  address  which 
I  give  below,  and  meet  me  somewhere— wherever  you  think 
best— at  any  hour  to-morrow.      After  dusk  if  you  do  not 


282  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

mind.  I  hate  to  show  myself  in  daylight  in  the  open 
streets.  There  is  a  big  church  not  far  from  you;  we  might 
meet  at  the  gate.  If  you  do  not  answer,  if  you  do  not  meet 
me,  I  shall  know  that  you  too  have  given  me  up. 

"F.  M." 

Lisbeth's  eyes  swam  in  tears.  How  weary,  how  bitter, 
how  despairing  were  the  words  which  he  had  written !  The 
iron  had  entered  into  his  very  soul.  But  he  had  not  forgot- 
ten his  promise  to  her,  and  he  had  wanted  to  see  her — that 
was  something.  She  thought  with  pity  of  the  poor  mother, 
whose  hopes  must  already  have  suffered  such  a  downfall. 
Could  she,  Lisbeth,  do  nothiug  to  avert  the  crushing  blow 
that  was  descending  on  Lady  Adela's  head  ?  Could  she  in 
no  way  help  and  comfort  the  man  who  had  suffered  so 
cruelly,  and,  as  Lisbeth  believed,  so  undeservedly  ? 

She  went  to  her  own  room,  and  hurriedly  wrote  a  note 
to  the  address  given  in  the  letter. 

"  Dear  Frank,"  she  wrote,  "  I  want  very  much  indeed  to 
see  you.  I  will  be  at  the  gate  of  the  church  you  speak  of  at 
five  to-morrow  afternoon.  You  will  be  sure  to  be  there.  It 
was  my  great  sorrow  when  I  left  Quest  to  think  that  you 
might  come  when  I  was  away ;  but  they  sent  for  me.  Alys 
is  very  ill,  and  feels  the  poor  baby's  death  terribly.  You 
could  not  help  being  sorry  for  her,  if  you  saw  her  now. 

"  Your  sincere  friend, 

"Lisbeth." 

She  took  the  letter  with  her  own  hands  to  the  nearest 
pillar-box,  and  then  came  back  to  Alys's  room,  and  took  her 
old  place  beside  the  bed. 

Lisbeth  was  to  sit  up  that  night.  For  some  time  Alys 
lay  in  the  passive  quiescent  state  which  came  of  her  great 
weakness;  but  towards  midnight,  she  began  to  grow  restless, 
and  to  utter  short  broken  moans  and  words  which  brought 
her  sister  at  once  to  her  side. 

"  I  am  here,  darling ;  can  I  do  anything  for  you  ? " 

"It  is  you,  Lisbeth.     Oh,  I  am  glad." 


RETRIBUTION.  283 

Lisbeth's  heart  leaped  up,  it  was  the  first  time  that  Alys 
had  expressed  any  pleasure  in  her  presence.  Indeed,  she 
had  seemed  to  have  only  an  occasional  consciousness  of  it 
before. 

"  The  nurse  would  riot  let  me  speak  last  night;  I  wanted 
you  then,  but  she  would  not  send  for  you.  Now— I  must 
say  something." 

Lisbeth  did  not  oppose  her.  She  was  of  opinion  that  it 
would  do  Alys  less  harm  to  talk  than  to  remain  silent.  It 
was  that  strange,  dreary,  apathetic  silence  that  she  dreaded 
—not  the  excitement  of  speech,  which  might  be  remedial. 

"  Drink  this,  dear;  then  you  can  talk  a  little  if  you  feel 
inclined,"  said  Lisbeth,  soothingly.  And  then  she  sat  down 
and  laid  her  cool  firm  hand  on  Alys's  hot  nervous  fingers. 

"  Is— is  it  all  over  ?  "  was  the  first  shrinking  question. 

"AH  over,  dear." 

"  The  inquest— those  dreadful  men  who  came  to  see  my 
poor  baby,  and  hear  what  I — I  had  to  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  over,  darling." 

"And  now  what  did  they  say  ?  Why  has  nobody  been 
to  tell  me  ?    Did  they  say  I  was  a  murderess  ?  " 

"  They  were  not  so  unjust,  Alys  dear.  They  said  how 
sorry  they  were — how  they  sympathised  with  you  and  Ed- 
mund in  your  trouble,  and  how  terrible  it  was  for  you. 
That  was  all." 

Alys  lay  still,  with  her  great  blue  eyes  fixed  on  Lisbeth's 
face. 

"But — did  they  not  say  I  must  go  to  prison — like — 
like " 

She  could  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  Lisbeth  knew 
that  she  was  thinking  of  Francis  Moor. 

"  No,  dear;  there  was  no  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

To  Lisbeth's  surprise,  Alys  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  the  tears  trickled  down  between  her  thin  fingers. 

"  Then  it  is  very  unfair,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  ought  to  go 
to  prison  too.  I  am  just  as  much  to  blame  as  Frank  was — 
poor  Frank— when  he  struggled  with  Zadock  for  my  sake 
and  threw  him  down." 


284:  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  For  your  sake ! "  said  Lisbeth  faintly.  Slie  had  never 
heard  Alys  use  this  expression  before. 

"  Yes,  for  my  sake— to  save  me.  Zadock  had  attacked  me 
first." 

"  But,  Alys,  you  did  not  exactly  say  so  at  the  time." 

"  I  know  I  did  not.  I  was  frightened ;  I  don't  think  I 
quite  knew  what  I  said.  I  did  not  think  it  made  much  dif- 
ference." 

"  It  would  have  made  a  good  deal  of  difference,  I  think," 
said  Lisbeth,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  "  If  Frank  had 
been  known  to  be  defending  you,  there  would  have  been  a 
motive  for  the  struggle.  But  you  let  it  be  thought  simply 
that  you  witnessed  it  from  some  little  distance — not  that  you 
had  in  any  way  been  connected  with  it." 

"  Zadock  hated  me,  you  know,"  said  Alys,  speaking  more 
connectedly,  "  and  I  think  he  was  very  angry  because  Frank 
had  just— kissed  me.  It  was  that  that  made  me  so  afraid  to 
speak  out.  I  did  not  want  every  one  to  know.  .  .  .  And  it 
did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  time  that  it  would  make  much 
difference.  But  I  told  it  once  to  Edmund,  and  he  laughed, 
and  said " 

"  Yes,  dear— said  what  ? "  asked  Lisbeth  eagerly,  as  Alys 
paused. 

"  He  said  it  was  a  good  thing  it  had  not  been  a  hanging 
matter ;  for  that  little  incident  would  have  probably  decided 
the  verdict,  and  that  Frank  would  have  got  off  scot-free  if  I 
had  spoken  out  in  time.  Oh,  Lisbeth,  I  have  never  been 
happy  since." 

Lisbeth  drew  a  long  breatb.  Now  she  understood. 
There  was  no  need  for  her  to  seek  other  reasons  for  Alys's 
unhappiness. 

"  Since  I  have  been  lying  here,"  said  Alys,  "  I  seem  to  see 
it  all  quite  plainly.  I  must  have  been  mad  or  blind,  Lis- 
beth, at  the  time.  Why  was  it  ?  I  was  sickened  by  the 
sight  of  that  terrible  struggle,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
Frank  had  been  too  violent.  But  last  night— in  the  very 
middle  of  the  night— I  saw  it  all  over  again;  just  as  it  hap- 
pened—and yet  I  saw  it  differently.     Frank  was  only  de- 


RETRIBUTION.  285 

fending  himself;  he  was  not  savage  or  cruel,  as  I  thought. 
Why  didn't  I  see  it  then  ?  Why  couldn't  I  say  so  at  the 
time  ?  I  see  now  that  it  was  my  fault— even  Edmund  made 
me  see  that  it  was  my  fault— that  Frank  was  sent  to  prison. 
I  might  have  spoken  for  him,  and  I  was  afraid." 

"  What  were  you  afraid  of  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  I  was  afraid  of  him.     I  thought  of  him  always  as  a  man 
with  blood  upon  his  hands.     Zadock's  blood.     I  could  not 
help  it— but  I  was  afraid."  m 

"It  was  more  your  misfortune  than  your  fault,"  said  Lis- 
beth heavily.     u  We  cannot  all  be  brave." 

"  But  I  am  punished  for  my  cowardice,"  said  Alys,  lift- 
ing up  her  weak  hands.  "  I  said  I  could  not  love  a  man 
who  was  a  murderer— although  I  might  have  known  that 
Zadock's  death  was  accident,  not  murder;  and  here  am  I 
now  with  my  own  child's  death  upon  my  head— a  murder- 
ess, certainly,  if  Frank  were  a  murderer.  Oh,  God  has  sent 
a  punishment  upon  me  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  bear." 

She  moved  her  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side  upon  her 
pillow.  Her  face  was  very  white,  but  her  eyes  were  burn- 
ing brightly.  Lisbeth  caressed  her  gently,  but  did  not 
speak.  There  was  something  in  her  throat  which  made 
speech  difficult. 

"  If  they  had  sent  me  to  prison,  I  could  have  borne  it 
better,"  Alys  cried  out  wildly.  "I  had  been  waiting  for 
that— waiting  for  the  time  when  I  could  rise  up  and  say, 
'  Yes,  I  am  glad.  I  will  expiate  my  wrong-doing,  as  he  has 
done.'" 

"  There  was  no  wrong-doing,  Alys.  You  made  a  mistake, 
as  others  have  done  before.  It  was  very  sad,  but  it  was  not 
a  crime." 

"  And  Zadock's  death  was  not  a  crime,"  said  Alys,  "  al- 
though I  said  it  was.  I  married  Edmund  because  I  felt 
that  awful  horror  of  Frank,  as  of  a  man  who  had  killed  an- 
other man.  And  now— now— people  will  have  that  same 
horror  of  me — I  know  how  it  feels— that  horror  of  the 
woman  who  has  killed  her  child ;  and  I  shall  be  branded 
as  Frank  is  branded— with  an  eternal  disgrace." 
19 


286  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

u  No,"  said  Lisbeth  gravely,  "  that  is  not  true.  You  are 
not  disgraced;  and  neither  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  love 
him  is  Frank  disgraced.  You  injured  him  most  when  you 
gave  up  your  love  for  him,— not  when  you  kept  a  cowardly 
silence,  or  spoke  against  him  at  the  trial." 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  worst  of  it  all.  I  did  not  know  what  I 
was  doing  when  I  said  I  gave  up  my  love  for  him." 

"  You  had  better  not  say  any  more,  Alys." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  wrong.  I  don't  think 
I  have  any  love  for  any  one  left  in  me.  Not  even  for  Frank, 
not  much  even  for  you,  Lisbeth,  though  I  love  you  best  of 
all.  Baby  has  taken  away  with  her  my  power  of  loving— 
and  I  think  I  must  have  lost  the  right  to  love  when  I  gave 
up  Frank." 

**  Here  is  Edmund." 

"  Ah,  Edmund !  "  A  tone  of  sharp  terror  crept  into  Alys's 
voice.  "  Will  he  ever  look  at  me  without  thinking  that  after 
all  I  had  better  have  married  the  man  with  blood  upon  his 
hands  ? " 

"  Alys,  child,  you  are  mistaken  in  him.  He  told  me  to 
say  to  you  that  nothing  you  could  do  would  ever  destroy  his 
love.  He  wanted  to  come  in  to  comfort  you.  In  his  love 
lies  the  hope  of  all  your  future  life." 

But  Alys  could  say  no  more.  She  broke  into  tears,  and 
clung  to  Lisbeth  sobbing. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  said  she.  "  I  am  not  fit  to  live.  I 
have  spoilt  two  men's  lives  for  them,  and  I  have  killed  my 
child.  I  think  that  in  God's  sight  I  must  be  worse  than  a 
murderer." 

And  she  would  not  be  comforted. 


IN  THE  DUSK.  287 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

W  THE  DUSK. 

The  dusk  was  gathering,  and  the  lamplighters  were  be- 
ginning their  evening  round  when  Lisbeth  reached  the  gate 
of  the  church  to  which  Frank  had  referred,  a  well-known 
Kensington  church,  where  it  was  easy  to  fix  a  meeting.  She 
had  left  Alys  in  the  nurse's  hands,  and  had  said  that  she 
wanted  a  little  fresh  air  before  dinner, — not  that  there  was 
any  particular  need  to  account  for  her  movements.  She  was 
quite  independent ;  for  Edmund  was  out  all  day,  and  Mrs. 
Creighton  refused  to  come  to  the  house  so  long  as  Miss  Ver- 
rall  stayed.  Julian  was  abroad  with  her  husband,  or  she 
would  have  come  at  once ;  as  it  was,  she  wrote  loving  and 
sympathetic  letters,  with  kind  messages  from  Lord  Rayn- 
flete,  but  could  not  return  home  for  a  month  or  two. 

Lisbeth  stopped  at  the  church  gate  and  waited.  Then  a 
man  stepped  out  of  the  shadows  and  confronted  her.  For  a 
moment  she  shrank  back  with  a  sinking  heart.  Was  this 
Frank  ?  His  face  was  haggard  and  worn,  his  eyes  sunken, 
he  had  an  indescribably  haunted  look.  But  she  knew  him 
when  he  spoke. 

"Well,  Lisbeth,"  he  said,  with  a  bitter  intonation,  "so 
even  you  do  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  she  answered,  and  held  out  both  her  hands. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  grasped  them  in  his  own, 
and  she  saw  that  his  lip  quivered. 

"  Forgive  me;  I  thought  that  you  too  were  going  to  give 
me  up." 

"  Too !  "  she  repeated.     "  Who  else  ? " 

He  answered  by  a  look  of  reproach.  "  I  have  not  forgot- 
ten," he  said  quietly.     "  I  never  shall  forget." 

A  stab  of  pain  made  Lisbeth  wince  a  little.  Her  love 
was  very  generous ;  but  she  was  a  woman  still. 

"  Shall  we  walk  on  ? "  she  asked  after  a  short  pause. 
11  We  can  get  into  the  Gardens  almost  directly.    Mr.  Creigh- 


288  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

ton  showed  me  the  way.     I  daresay  you  know  it.     We  can 
talk  quietly  there." 

He  acquiesced,  and  walked  beside  her,  without  speaking 
until  they  reached  the  green  shades  of  the  avenue,  which 
twilight  was  obscuring.     Then  he  asked  a  question — 

"  How  is  she  ?  " 

k  Very  weak  and  ill.  A  trifle  better  than  she  was  yester- 
day, perhaps.     I  think  that  when  the  funeral  is  over " 

"  When  is  it  to  be  ? " 

"To-morrow.     It  has  been  a  great  shock  to  her,  Frank." 

"  I  suppose  so.  She  knows  now  how  it  feels  to  have  done 
a  terrible  thing  without  intention.  Has  it  made  her  more 
merciful  to  me  ? " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Frank.  She  is 
bitterly  repentant.  Now  she  says  she  understands.  Before 
— her  eyes  were  blinded  by  fear  and  cowardice  and  preju- 
dice. It  would  have  been  almost  a  relief  to  her  to  be  con- 
demned and  punished  for  what  she  calls — her  crime.  Yet  it 
was  no  crime,  but  pure  accident,  as  was  also  Zadock  Verrall's 
death.  Oh,  Frank,  you  know  I  always  understood  that." 
Lisbeth  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  know  you  did,  Lisbeth,  dear  and  true,  as  you  always 
were;  but  she  left  me  to  my  fate." 

"  I  don't  deny  it,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  a  low,  pained  tone ; 
"  but  I  want  you  to  understand,  Frank,  that  she  has  awak- 
ened to  a  sense  of  her  wrong-doing,  and — if  she  knew  that 
you  were  near  her — would  only  beg  to  be  allowed  to  throw 
herself  at  your  feet,  and  beg  for  your  forgiveness." 

"  It  is  easy  to  ask  forgiveness,"  said  Frank  with  a  stern 
smile,  "  but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  forget  what  you  have  suffered, 
in  a  prison  cell,  herded  with  criminals— disgraced,  forsaken, 
condemned.  I  have  never  acknowledged  and  never  will 
acknowledge  the  justice  of  that  sentence,  Lisbeth,  and  it  is 
all  the  bitterer  to  me  because  Alys  herself  contributed  to 
bring  it  about." 

"Not  knowingly." 
.   ''There  is  an  old  quotation  which  will  serve  my  turn 
very  well :  '  Evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought,  as  well  as 


IN  THE  DUSK.  289 

want  of  heart.'  She  did  her  utmost  to  condemn  me  to  a 
prison.  I  love  her — yes,  to  my  cost,  I  love  her  still ;  but  I 
cannot  profess  that  I  am  sorry  for  her  in  her  grief.  It  is  a 
strange  piece  of  retribution,  that  she  should  suffer  exactly  as 
I  suffered — whom  she  could  not  love  because  I  had  blood  on 
my  hands." 

"It  is  retribution  indeed.  So  much  so  that  you  might 
well  be  content.  You  would  not  wish  her  to  be  punished 
more  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  wish  her  no  punishment  at  all.  I  hope  she  will 
learn  mercy  to  others  through  her  own  suffering." 

His  tone  was  hard.  Something  in  him  had  changed; 
this  was  a  bitter,  almost  a  desperate  man,  not  the  gentle 
dilettante  in  art  and  music  whom  Lisbeth  had  once  known. 
The  lover  of  her  youth  was  dead ;  and  yet  she  loved  the  man 
better  still. 

"Frank,"  she  said,  gently,  "she  has  suffered  and  re- 
pented. It  is  not  only  the  shock  of  her  child's  death,  but 
the  conviction  of  her  heart  that  has  changed  her.  Soon 
after  she  was  married,  she  came  to  know  how  she  had 
wronged  you;  and  she  has  never  had  a  happy  moment 
since." 

"Does  she  not  love  her  husband  ?"  Frank  asked,  with  a 
quick,  darting  glance. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  Lisbeth  answered,  val- 
iantly. "  The  point  is  that  she  has  discovered  her  mistake, 
her  cowardice,  her  untruth  to  you,  long  before  this  terrible 
event  happened ;  and  she  has  been  repenting  of  it  ever  since. 
Think  of  this,  and  do  not  be  too  hard  on  her." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  hard  on  her,"  said  he  quietly.  "  I  com- 
prehend her  now.  She  had  a  shallow  nature,  in  spite  of  her 
lovely  face;  and  one  takes  a  little  time  in  finding  it  out. 
As  for  her  repentance — how  has  she  shown  it  ?  I  read  in 
the  papers  that  she  is  a  society  dame — a  lady  who  is  always 
at  grand  parties,  and  leaves  her  household  to  take  care  of 
itself,  and  her  child  to  die  of  neglect.  There  is  a  long 
article  about  it  in  to-day's  Verity.  I  would  advise  you  to 
read  it." 


290  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"Surely  you  know,1'  cried  Lisbeth,  stung  by  bis  tone, 
"that  gaiety  will  not  cure  the  aching  of  a  wounded 
heart." 

He  smiled. 

"  That  sounds  sentimental,  Lisbeth,  and  I  always  thought 
that  you  were  so  matter-of-fact.  Well,  I  have  learnt  all 
that  I  wanted  to  know.  I  am  so  besotted  on  her  still,  you 
see,  that  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  cross  the  seas, 
without  knowing  whether  she  was  better.  You  say  that  she 
is  better.  Well,  that  is  right.  If  she  had  died  of  her  child's 
death,  I  think  I  could  have  forgiven  her.'1 

"  You  are  very  hard,  Frank.  Is  death  the  only  way  to 
soften  you  ?  They  have  feared  for  her  brain ;  and  that 
would  be  a  worse  fate  than  death." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  looked  down. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  made  an  impression. 

"She  is  not  out  of  danger  yet.  I  do  not  know  how 
things  will  turn  out;  but  even  you,  Frank,  can  hardly  have 
suffered  more  than  she  has  done." 

"  I  am  a  brute,"  he  said  suddenly.  He  stopped  short  in 
the  quiet  road,  and  looked  far  away  into  the  darkness. 
"  God  forgive  me  !  "  he  ejaculated  under  his  breath.  "  What 
is  my  pain  that  I  should  make  such  a  rout  about  it,  com  • 
pared  to  hers  ?  Lisbeth,  this  prison  life  has  demoralised 
me.  I  have  raged  like  a  wild  beast.  I  have  sickened  and 
sulked  like  a  caged  animal  will  do.  I  have  had  no  care  for 
anything  or  anybody  but  myself.  The  very  way  you  speak 
proves  to  me  how  low  I  have  fallen.  To  remind  me  of  my 
sufferings  in  that  way." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you,  Frank,"  Lisbeth  said  meek- 
ly. She  did  not  quite  understand  the  mingled  pain  and 
pathos  of  his  answer.  But  she  felt  that  the  ice  was  giving 
way — the  hard  rock  yielding — that  there  was  some  gracious 
change. 

"  I  should  not  have  spoken  in  this  way  in  the  old  days,  I 
suppose,"  he  went  on  ruminatingly.  "  I  was  more  generous, 
I  suppose.  Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  her,  she  has  been  punished, 
as  you  say.     What  am  I  that  I  should  wish  to  add  one  iota 


IN  THE  DUSK.  291 

to  the  weight  she  has  laid  upon  herself  ?    Lisbeth,  I  take 
back  what  I  said." 

"I  knew  you  would,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"You  would  not  wish  to  hurt  her  more,  if  you  saw  how 
broken-down  she  is.  Tell  me  that  you  forgive  her,  Frank, 
that  I  may  know  you  still  to  be  all  that  I  ever  thought " 

"  Ah  Lisbeth,  but  you  never  thought  well  of  me." 

"Indeed  I  did.  I  lied  if  I  said  otherwise.  You  were 
always  the  first  and  best  of  men  to  me." 

Then  she  stopped  short  and  bit  her  lip.  What  had  she 
said  ?  Would  he  not  gather  from  her  unguarded  words 
how  great  was  her  love  for  him  ? 

But  Frank  had  never  been  given  to  vanity,  and  the  idea 
that  Lisbeth  cared  for  him  otherwise  than  as  a  sister  had 
not  penetrated  his  mind.  Her  refusal  of  him  in  the  old 
days  had  been  too  decided,  her  rebuffs  too  absolute,  to  lead 
him  to  form  visions  of  that  kind.  Besides,  his  thoughts 
were  still  centred  on  Alys. 

"I  always  knew,"  Lisbeth  went  on  more  soberly,  "how 
much  good  there  was  in  you,  and  that  it  needed  only  a  spur 
now  and  then  to  bring  it  out." 

"There  is  not  much  good  now,  Lisbeth." 

"  There  is  as  much  as  ever,  and  capabilities  of  more,"  she 
said  firmly ;  "  because  you  have  suffered,  and  are  a  stronger 
man." 

"I  have  suffered  certainly;  whether  I  am  stronger  or 
not,  only  time  can  show." 

"You  are  showing  it  now,  you  are  going  to  show  it 
now." 

"  Am  I  ? "  he  said,  a  little  sadly.     "  Well,  tell  me  how  ? " 

"You  will  forgive  Alys  the  injury  she  did  you— that  is 
the  first  thing.  That  is  the  great  thing,  because  the  thought 
that  she  had  injured  you  and  did  not  care  has  been  embitter- 
ing your  mind  for  the  last  two  years.  But  that  is  over,  is  it 
not  ?    You  will  try  to  forgive  and  forget  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  said  gravely;  "I  will  try." 

"  Then— will  the  next  thing  be  so  hard  ?  Frank,  you 
must  give  up  your  project  of  going  to  America." 


292  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

"  That  is  too  hard  for  me.     What  else  can  I  do  ? '' 

"If  you  go,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  fine  diplomacy,  "you 
must  go  later  on,  and  in  a  proper  way.  Have  you  thought 
of  your  mother  ? " 

"  Yes;  she  is  to  meet  me  in  Liverpool.  I  did  not  mean 
to  go  without  bidding  her  good-bye,  Lisbeth,"  he  said,  in 
something  of  an  injured  tone. 

"  I  should  think  not.  But  what  is  that  ?  Oh  Frank,  I 
did  not  think  you  would  be  so  cruel  to  your  mother. " 

"  I  am  not  cruel.     It  is  inevitable,  I  must  go." 

"  You  must  go  because  you  cannot  make  up  your  mind 
to  bear  the  pain,  the  humiliation,  of  coming  home  again 
amongst  people,  who,  you  think,  will  always  be  remember- 
ing the  past  against  you !  I  do  not  call  it  manly  to  run 
away." 

"  It  is  not  running  away.  It  is  the  most  obvious  thing 
in  the  world  that  I  must  go.  Why,  I  believe  I  remember 
you  saying  to  me  once  that  if  I  would  go  out  to  the  colonies 
and  do  some  honest  work  there,  you  would  respect  me." 

"  Very  likely ;  because  you  had  no  duties  at  home,"  said 
Lisbeth,  with  sudden  warmth.  "But  things  are  changed 
now.  Your  mother  is  much  broken  in  health,  her  sight  is 
failing,  and  she  is  very  feeble.  You  ought  not  to  desert 
her.  You  have  caused  her — unintentionally,  I  know, — a 
great  deal  of  grief  and  pain;  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
have  no  duty  towards  her  now  ?  To  my  mind  you  ought  to 
stay  at  home,  and  be  a  son  and  daughter  to  her  for  the  rest 
of  her  days.  You  may  even  bring  home  a  daughter  to  her 
one  of  these  days." 

"  Never,  Lisbeth !  I  could  never  ask  a  woman  to  bear 
my  name  now." 

"  That  is  nonsense.  A  woman  who  loved  you  would  be 
proud  to  bear  it,  and  would  love  you  the  better  for  the  trou- 
ble you  have  been  passing  through." 

"  Would  she  ?    I  do  not  know  such  women." 

"Because  your  eyes  are  blind.  Again,  there's  Moor  End 
and  the  estate.     Who  is  to  look  after  them  when  you  are 


gone 


2" 


IN  THE  DUSK.  293 

"  There  is  not  much  to  look  after,'1  said  the  young  man, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  But  you  would  not  like  the  old  house  to  pass  into  the 
hands  of  strangers  ?  And  it  is  not  a  question  of  liking," 
said  Lisbeth,  with  passionate  emphasis ;  u  it  is  a  question  of 
right  and  wrong.  Your  duty  to  your  mother  should  be  the 
first  thing  in  the  world  to  you  now." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Frank  said,  in  a  gloomy  tone — 

"  It's  no  use,  Lisbeth,  I  couldn't  do  it.  It  makes  me  mad 
to  stay  in  England.  These  London  streets  are  torture  to  me 
now." 

"  But  on  the  moors " 

"  It  would  be  worse.  I  must  go.  You  are  wrong  in  say- 
ing I  am  stronger  for  the  past.  I  am  very  weak.  I  shall 
do  no  good  until  I  am  far  away." 

"You  are  putting  yourself  first." 

" I  suppose  I  always  did,"  he  said,  rather  bitterly.  "It's 
too  late  to  alter.     I  must  go." 

Lisbeth  sighed  deeply.  "  You  are  wrong,"  she  said,  "  and 
you  will  see  it  some  day.  However,  I  see  it  is  no  use  say- 
ing anything  more.  I  must  turn  back  now,  Frank.  I  am 
so  glad  to  have  seen  you  again." 

"  I  could  not  have  left  England  without  coming  to  say 
good-bye,"  said  Frank  affectionately. 

Lisbeth  made  no  answer,  and  they  walked  on  together 
in  silence  for  a  little  time.  Then  Frank,  in  glancing  side- 
ways at  his  companion,  saw  the  gleam  of  tears  upon  her 
cheek.     He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  Lisbeth — are  those  tears  for  me  ? " 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  going,"  she  said,  quickly;  "you 
would  not  wish  me  to  be  otherwise.  I  have  lost  so  many 
friends  lately  that  I  feel  the  loss  of  another  to  be  a  misfor- 
tune." 

"I  may  come  back,"  he  said,  rather  falteringly. 

"  Nay,  one  cannot  count  on  that.  Besides,  if  you  came, 
it  is  as  another  man,  with  new  friends  and  new  interests. 
That  is  the  way — the  man  goes  out  into  the  world,  while  the 


294  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

women  sit  at  home ;  like  Lady  Adela  at  Moor  End,  and  Lis- 
beth  Verrall  at  Quest.     It's  lonely  work." 

"  You  make  me  wish  I  could  ask  you  to  come  with  me," 
said  Frank,  half  lightly,  half  sadly.  "  You  would  be  a  capi- 
tal comrade,  Lisbeth,  a  helpmate  for  any  man  if  he  did  not 
happen  to  have  a  stain  upon  his  name." 

The  words  leaped  to  her  lips,  "  What  do  I  care  for  any 
stain  upon  your  name  ? "  but  she  held  them  back.  She 
would  not  throw  herself  at  him,  she  would  not  place  herself 
in  any  position  of  humiliation.  She  walked  on  with  head 
erect,  and  a  hot  colour  burning  in  her  cheeks.  She  looked 
very  handsome,  but  so  dignified  that  Frank  fancied  her 
offended.     He  resumed  in  a  different  tone — 

"  I  assure  you,  Lisbeth,  I  do  not  think  that  my  mother 
will  object  to  my  leaving  England — at  least,  for  a  time.  If 
there  were  any  real  reason  for  my  staying,  I  would  try  to 
stay.  But  it  would  be  intensely  painful  to  me,  and  I  cannot 
see  that  it  would  be  an  advantage  to  my  mother.  My  one 
desire  is  to  get  away." 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  successful,"  she  answered  gravely ; 
u  but  I  do  not  think  that  you  are  quite  right  to  go.  However, 
you  must  be  the  judge  of  that.  And  are  we  to  say  good-bye 
now  ?  or  will  you  see  me  again  before  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  let  me  see  you  again,"  he  implored.  "  I  have  still 
another  day  before  I  need  meet  my  mother  in  Liverpool.  If 
I  see  you  again  you  can  tell  me  how  Alys  is." 

"  I  will  meet  you  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow,  in  the 
same  place, — if  that  will  do." 

u  Yes,  yes.  That  is  good  of  you,  Lisbeth,  good  and  kind 
as  you  always  are !  How  I  have  longed  for  a  sight  of  your 
face — how  I  shall  long  again  when  I  am  far  away ! " 

"  Don't  come  any  further,"  said  she,  stopping  and  holding 
out  her  hand.  It  was  unendurable  to  her  to  hear  him  say 
kind  and  friendly  things  any  longer.  She  wanted  so  much 
more — so  much  that  he  would  not  and  could  not  give. 
"Good-bye;  I  am  nearly  at  the  house  now,  and  some  one 
might  see  us." 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said.     "  Thank  you  for  meeting  me  to- 


A  STRONG  APPEAL.  295 

night.     I  was  nearly  in  despair,  and  you  have  cheered  me. 
You  will  cheer  me  again  before  I  go." 

"  If  I  can,"  she  said,  with  a  grave  smile,  as  they  separated. 
And  for  the  rest  of  the  way  home,  the  lighted  streets  were 
to  Lisbeth's  tear-dimmed  eyes  only  a  dazzling  blur. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A  STRONG  APPEAL. 

Lisbeth  did  not  sit  up  with  Alys  that  night,  and  the 
nurse  took  her  place.  But  she  stayed  with  her  the  greater 
part  of  the  next  day,  and  did  her  best  to  comfort  her  during 
the  sad  hour  when  the  little  child's  coffin  was  borne  away  to 
its  resting  place,  and  when  the  house  seemed  strangely 
silent  after  the  departure  of  mourners  and  hired  helpers, 
and  the  trampling  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  quiet  street  below. 

"  It  is  all  over  then,"  the  bereaved  mother  said  at  last, 
with  a  weary  sigh. 

"  You  will  see  her  again,"  said  Lisbeth. 

"  Shall  I  ?  I  don't  know.  I  am  not  good  enough.  And 
I  don't  want  to  die.     I  am  afraid." 

Yet  she  looked  as  white  and  frail  as  she  lay  with  her 
hands  stretched  out  straight  before  her,  and  her  eyes  heavy 
with  weeping  and  fever  and  sleeplessness,  that  a  shudder 
passed  through  Lisbeth's  frame  at  the  words  of  fear.  Alys 
might  not,  perhaps,  be  seriously  ill,  but  she  looked  as  if  it 
would  take  very  little  to  end  her  span  of  life. 

"There  is  nothing  to  fear,"  said  Lisbeth,  "if  you  can 
trust  God." 

"You  were  always  good,"  Alys  answered  faintly,  "but  I 
don't  think  I  ever  was.  Oh  my  little  baby,  my  poor  little 
darling  that  I  killed !     Shall  I  really  see  her  again  ? " 

And  then  she  burst  into  passionate  tears,  and  Lisbeth  had 
a  hard  task  in  quieting  and  consoling  her. 

"  You  will  see  Edmund  to-day,  will  you  not  ? "  she  asked 


296  ™E  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

by  and  by,  when  Alys  had  reached  a  quieter  mood.  "  When 
he  comes  back,  he  will  be  tired  and  sad, — you  will  see  him, 
then  ? " 

uHe  will  not  want  to  come,"  said  Alys,  turning  her  face 
away.  And  when  Lisbeth  urged  that  he  had  several  times 
entreated  permission  to  enter  the  sick  room,  she  only  an- 
swered with  her  old  wailing  cry,  u  I  am  afraid,  I  am  afraid. 
I  am  always  afraid." 

It  seemed  as  if  her  whole  being  had  been  usurped  by  fear. 

Lisbeth  let  the  subject  drop,  and  spoke  of  other  things, 
trying  to  draw  her  sister's  mind  away  from  the  topics  that 
were  so  painful  to  her.  But  Alys  was  not  easy  to  distract  or 
amuse.  Her  mind  ran  persistently  on  the  evil  of  her  own 
doings,  the  uselessness  of  her  existence,  the  unhappiness  of 
her  future. 

"  If  you  thought  of  others  rather  than  of  yourself,"  Lis- 
beth said  at  last,  with  a  touch  of  severity,  "  you  would  find 
things  easier  to  bear." 

"  I  do  think  of  others,  I  am  thinking  of  poor  Frank,"  said 
Alys,  whose  tears  were  set  flowing  as  she  spoke. 

Lisbeth  hesitated  a  little  before  she  said—"  I  may  as  well 
tell  you,  I  saw  Mr.  Moor  last  night." 

"  You  saw  him  ?    Where  ? " 

"  Out  of  doors.  I  talked  to  him  a  little  while.  He  is  go- 
ing to  America." 

Alys's  eyes  asked  eagerly  for  more. 

"  He  is  to  meet  his  mother  at  Liverpool  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  say  good-bye  to  her." 

"  Will  he  never  come  back  ?  " 

"  He  says  he  may ;  but  I  should  think  not." 

"  Oh,  poor  Frank !  "  said  Alys  pitifully.  And  then  for  a 
time  she  lay  quite  still. 

"  Did  he  speak  of  me  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"Yes." 

"  Lisbeth,  tell  me— was  he  very  angry— very  bitter  ? " 

"  He  was,  at  first.  But  afterwards  he  said  he  was  sorry 
for  you ;  he  said  he  forgave  you  any  injury  that  you  had 
done  him." 


r  A  STRONG  APPEAL.  297 

She  could  not  help  making  her  tone  dry,  and  her  manner 
cold.  She  had  begged  Frank  to  pardon  Alys,  but  sometimes 
she  had  difficulty  in  pardoning  her  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  he  forgave  me,"  said  Alys  in  a  soft  voice,  and 
then  for  a  time  she  lay  perfectly  still,  and  Lisbeth's  heart 
misgave  her  as  to  whether  she  had  done  a  right  thing  in  re- 
peating to  her  what  Frank  had  said.  But  it  had  certainly 
had  the  desired  effect  of  diverting  her  mind  from  the  death 
of  her  child  and  the  other  painful  circumstances  of  her  lot. 

"  Lisbeth,"  she  asked  at  last,  "  do  you  think  he  ought  to 
go  to  America  ?  " 

"No;  I  think  it  is  his  duty  to  stay  at  home,  and  take  care 
of  his  mother.  I  told  him  so,  but  I  could  not  convince 
him." 

"  Why  does  he  want  to  go  ?  " 

u  Because  he  feels  life  so  painful  to  him  in  England.  His 
career  is  over— he  is  a  marked  man ;  he  does  not  think  he 
could  bear  the  position.  I  think  it  would  be  wiser  and  man- 
lier if  he  tried  to  live  down  evil  report,  and  prove  himself  a 
good  son,  and  a  good  manager  of  the  estate.  I  am  very  sorry 
he  is  going." 

"  Poor  Lisbeth !    You  will  never  see  him  again,  then." 

"  It  is  not  poor  Lisbeth,  it  is  poor  Lady  Adela,"  exclaimed 
Lisbeth,  with  sudden  heat.  u  She  is  the  person  to  be  pitied. 
She  adores  her  son,  and  he  has  not  only  brought  this  grief 
upon  her,  but  now  deserts  her  in  her  old  age,  and  when  she 
is  growing  blind— just  because  he  will  not  bear  a  little  pain. 
Oh,  why  are  people  so  cowardly  and  so  weak  ?  "  cried  Lis- 
beth, in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart. 

"  It  must  be  beautiful  to  be  strong  and  brave— like  you," 
said  Alys,  watching  her,  with  a  new  look  in  her  eyes.  "  We 
cannot  help  our  weakness,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh  yes,  we  can,"  said  Lisbeth,  passionately,  "  if  only  we 
care  enough  to  help  other  people  we  can  be  as  strong  and 
brave  as  we  like." 

"  Can  you  not  help  him  ?  " 

"  No;  he  will  not  let  me." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Lisbeth  shaded  her  eyes  with  her 


298  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

hand,  so  that  her  sister  should  not  see  her  face.  Alys  lay 
very  still. 

"  Shall  you  see  him  again  ? " 

"Yes,  to-night.1' 

"  Then — do  you  think  he  would  still  do  anything  for  my 
sake  ?  Lisbeth,  I  will  be  brave,  and  send  him  a  message  if 
you  will  give  it." 

"  I  will  give  it,  if  I  think  it  a  right  message." 

"  Tell  him,  then,  that  he  must  stay  in  England — for  my 
sake.  Not  that  we  shall  ever  meet  again ;  not  that  he  need 
ever  remember  me;  but  because — because  he  has  said  that 
he  forgave  me.  If  he  forgives,  he  will  not  give  me  the 
added  misery  of  knowing  that  I  have  helped  to  drive  him 
out  of  England,  and  that  his  mother  is  pining  for  him  while 
he  is  far  away.  By  the  memory  of  that  little  child  of  mine, 
Lisbeth,  tell  him  he  must  not  leave  his  mother  all  alone. 
For  my  sake,  and  because  he  forgives  me,  I  ask  him  to  stay. 
Will  you  tell  him  this  %  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  him  that.  But  I  do  not  think,  Alys 
dear,  he  will  stay.  And  if  I  give  him  that  message,  will  you 
do  one  thing  for  me  ? " 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  See  Edmund  when  he  comes  back,  and  be  good  to  him." 

"  I  suppose  it  must  come  some  time,"  said  Alys,  with  a 
little  nervous  shiver.  "  I  am  a  coward — as  you  say.  But — 
I  will  see  him,  if  you  like.     He  can  but  kill  me  once." 

u  He  is  ready  to  love  you  as  much  as  you  will  let  him. 
You  should  try  to  be  more  than  ever  to  him  now,"  said  Lis- 
beth; and  although  Alys  closed  her  eyes  and  turned  her 
head  wearily  away,  she  thought  there  was  a  glimmer  of  in- 
terest, almost  of  pleasure,  in  the  delicate  pale  face.  She 
wished  heartily  that  Edmund  would  come  at  once,  while 
Alys  was  in  this  better  mood. 

But  the  time  passed  on,  and  still  he  did  not  appear. 

After  tea,  Lisbeth  was  forced,  rather  against  her  will,  to 
leave  Alys  to  the  nurse's  care,  while  she  went  out  to  meet 
Francis  Moor  at  the  old  church  gate.  She  found  him  wait- 
ing for  her ;  and  although  the  covering  was  damp,  and  there 


A  STRONG  APPEAL.  299 

was  a  white  mist  in  the  air,  they  turned  at  once  into  the  gar- 
dens where  they  had  held  their  previous  conversation.  And 
there,  after  a  little  preliminary  talk,  Lisbeth  told  him  Alys's 
message,  and  waited  anxiously  for  his  reply. 

"  It  is  a  strong  appeal,"  he  said,  in  a  low  moved  voice; 
and  then  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"  She  asks  a  good  deal,"  he  went  on  presently.  "  She 
asks  me  to  give  up  all  my  chances  of  good  work  and  future 
happiuess,  and  to  stay  with  my  poor  mother.  Is  that  the 
thing  to  do,  I  wonder  ?  It  may  be.  I  have  thought  the 
matter  over  until  I  hardly  know  right  from  wrong." 

But  Lisbeth  thought  that  a  manlier  tone  underlay  the 
doubtful  speech.     She  waited ;  she  began  to  hope. 

"  Yes ;  she  makes  a  strong  appeal,"  he  said. 

"Your  conscience  supports  it,"  Lisbeth  said  quietly. 

h  Does  it  ?  I  am  not  quite  sure.  Well,  there  is  no  help 
for  it.  I  cannot  refuse  her.  I  cannot  think  of  you  going 
back  and  telling  her  I  will  not  do  what  she  commands.  I 
am  faithful  to  her,  you  see,  although  she  treated  me  so 
scurvily.  But  she  is  right,  I  have  seen  it  all  day  long — and 
ever  since  you  spoke  to  me.  Yes,  tell  her  then  that  I  will 
stay." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  I  am  so  glad." 

"  Glad,  are  you  ?— when  I  feel  as  if  I  had  promised  to  cut 
my  throat.  It  is  for  my  mother's  sake,  after  all — when  she  is 
gone,  Lisbeth,  I  shall  feel  myself  free  to  go  where  I  choose, 
— you  must  tell  Alys  that." 

"  Lady  Adela  will  live  for  many  years  yet,  please  God," 
said  Lisbeth,  with  gentle  seriousness.  "  And  in  time  you 
will  be  glad  that  you  have  done  what  is  right." 

They  talked  on  for  some  time,  planning  his  future  life  a 
little,  and  speaking  of  the  things  that  yet  remained.  Lis- 
beth's  solid,  cheerful  good  sense  brought  him  more  hope  and 
comfort  than  he  had  imagined  possible.  And  when  they  re- 
traced their  footsteps,  their  hearts  were  warm  although  the 
night  was  chill,  and  the  rain  blown  into  their  faces  by  the 
driving  wind. 

They  came  to  a  crowded  crossing,  which  they  had  to 


300  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

traverse  before  they  reached  the  turning  that  led  to  Ed- 
mund's house.  Lisbeth  crossed  it  timorously ;  she  was  not 
used  to  London  streets,  and  was  glad  to  have  Frank  as  a 
protection.  But  when  she  reached  the  other  side,  she  heard 
a  shout  and  turned — just  in  time  to  see  a  scramble  of  horses 
and  men  and  wheels  that  made  her  feel  sick  with  terror. 
Some  one  had  fallen  in  the  slippery  road ;  and  another  man 
had  rushed  to  his  rescue  and  dragged  him  into  safety,  but 
only  to  be  trampled  on  by  a  wildl/  passing  pair  of  horses 
and  touched  by  a  passing  wheel.  Lisbeth  had  much  ado  to 
collect  her  scattered  senses,  even  when  she  became  conscious 
that  the  man  rescued  was  Edmund  Creighton,  and  that  the 
rescuer,  now  lying  bleeding  and  unconscious  in  the  road, 
was  Francis  Moor. 

There  was  a  crowd  and  a  tumult,  and  she  found  herself 
bending  over  Frank's  prostrate  body,  and  holding  something 
to  his  lips,  while  Edmund  stood  by  with  a  scared,  bewildered 
white  face.  "  He's  not  dead,  is  he  ?  Surely  he  is  not  dead," 
he  said,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  said.  And  Lisbeth 
answered,  with  a  composure  that  amazed  herself— "  No,  I 
think  he  is  not  dead. " 

Then  the  ambulance  came  up  and  there  was  some  talk  of 
the  nearest  hospital — St.  George's  seemed  to  be  the  best. 
"  Why  not  to  my  house  ?  "  said  Edmund  loudly.  "  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine " 

But  Lisbeth  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  No,"  she  said, 
"  not  to  your  house.  He  would  not  like  it,  Edmund.  Let 
him  go  to  the  hospital;  he  will  be  better  there." 

She  did  not  prevent  him,  however,  from  accompanying  her 
to  the  hospital  in  a  cab,  and  making  every  possible  arrange- 
ment for  Frank's  comfort  as  a  private  patient.  It  was  per- 
haps as  well,  she  thought,  that  he  should  feel  compunction 
and  compassion  towards  the  man  whom  he  had  wronged 
and  despised ;  although  she  did  not  expect  either  to  be  so 
strongly  marked. 

The  injuries  were  somewhat  serious,  but  not  immediately 
dangerous.  Unless  inflammation  should  supervene;  and 
there  was  no  necessity — no  possibility,  in  fact— for  Lisbeth  to 


A  STRONG  APPEAL.  301 

stay,  as  she  would  have  dearly  liked  to  do.  She  had  a 
smile  from  the  injured  man  before  she  went;  but  Edmund 
would  not  come  forward,  he  kept  well  out  of  sight,  and 
would  not  meet  Frank's  eye.  And  finally  he  rather  hur- 
ried Lisbeth  away,  saying  that  Alys  would  be  anxious,  and 
that  they  would  come  again  upon  the  morrow.  They  tele- 
graphed to  Lady  Adela  on  their  way  back  to  Campden 
Hill. 

''  Alys  was  expecting  you,'1  Lisbeth  said,  when  they  stood 
under  the  hall,  and  she  had  time  to  remember  the  things 
that  had  happened  before  she  left  the  house.  u  You  will  go 
to  her,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Go  to  her  first,"  said  Edmund,  "  and  tell  her  what  has 
happened.     I  can't.     He  saved  my  life,  you  know. " 

a  I  know." 

"  I  was  never  a  friend  of  his.  Alys  knows  that.  Go  and 
tell  her.     She  must  know." 

And  he  hurried  into  a  dressing-room,  where  he  could 
wash  the  traces  of  his  fall  from  face  and  hands,  and  change 
his  clothes  before  presenting  himself  in  his  wife's  room. 
He  was  half  inclined  not  to  go.  He  had  a  strong  suspicion 
that  Alys  had  loved  Frank  more  than  she  would  ever  care 
for  him ;  and  he  saw  that  this  act  of  courage  and  self-devo- 
tion might  tend  to  restore  him  to  the  higher  place  in  her 
estimation.  Alys  was  a  good  woman,  he  said  to  himself, 
and  he  was  not  vulgarly,  foolishly  jealous;  but  he  would 
rather  have  been  saved  by  any  other  hand  than  that  of 
Francis  Moor. 

It  was  with  a  white  impassive  face,  which  marked  his 
emotions  very  successfully,  that  he  at  last  made  his  way  into 
Alys's  room.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  day  of  the 
child's  death,  when  she  had  been  carried  fainting  from  the 
nursery.  At  another  moment  he  would  have  felt  painfully 
nervous.  Now,  the  thought  of  Frank's  action  gave  him 
courage  to  confront  a  difficult  occasion. 

Alys's  large  frightened  eyes  met  his,  and  then  she  gave 
a  little  cry.  There  was  something  in  his  look  which  startled 
her,  and  which  yet  made  her  not  afraid  of  him.  Almost 
20 


302  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

involuntarily,  she  stretched  out  her  hands;  and  Edmund, 
coming  close  to 'her,  took  her  in  his  arms.  Seeing  this, 
Lisbeth  beckoned  to  the  nurse,  and  husband  and  wife  were 
left  alone. 

"Edmund,  can  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"My  love,  my  darling,  my  poor  white  bud,  there  is  no 
question  of  forgiveness  between  you  and  me." 

She  sighed  and  nestled  closer.  She  had  thought  that  she 
did  not  love  him.  The  restfulness  that  his  love  inspired  in 
her,  made  her  wonder  whether  she  might  not  be  happy  with 
him  after  all. 

"  You  have  heard,"  he  said  presently,  in  rather  broken 
tones. 

"Yes,  Lisbeth  told  me." 

"  I  owe  him  my  life." 

"  And  we  treated  him  so  badly — at  least,  I  did — Edmund, 
I  have  been  miserable  about  him ;  yet,  Lisbeth  says  he  has 
forgiven  me." 

Edmund  was  silent,  but  he  pressed  her  a  little  closer,  and 
she  felt  the  sympathy  that  he  did  not  speak. 

"  I  was  cruel  to  him,"  pursued  Alys.  "  I  said  he  had  blood 
on  his  hands,  and  now— my  own— my  own !  Oh,  Edmund, 
our  poor  little  girl ! "  And  then  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
sobbed  out  her  grief  upon  his  bosom. 

"I  was  to  blame,  too,"  said  Edmund,  in  sombre  tones. 
Even  now  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  anything  about 
the  knife— that  tiny  scrap  of  testimony  which  might  have 
been  counted  towards  Frank's  acquittal,  if  all  the  story 
had  been  correctly  told.  It  was  too  hard  for  him  to  con- 
fess to  Alys  how  far  he  had  been  wrong.  But  in  the 
light  of  Frank's  deed  of  generous  daring,  Edmund  knew 
himself  to  have  done  a  base  thing;  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  thoroughly  condemned  himself.  His  first 
task,  however,  was  to  soothe  and  comfort  his  fragile,  ail- 
ing wife,  who  clung  to  him  as  if  he  were  a  very  tower  of 
strength. 

"  If  you  could  but  love  me  a  little,  Alys,"  he  murmured 
at  last  into  her  ear. 


IN  HOSPITAL.  303 

"  I  will,"  she  said.  "  If  I  never  did  before,  Edmund,  I 
will  love  you  now." 

And  perhaps  she  was  already  nearer  loving  than  she 
knew. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN  HOSPITAL. 

LlSBETH  went  to  see  Frank  next  day,  but  was  not  allowed 
to  stay  very  long.  He  was  scarcely  conscious,  and  suffered 
great  pain  whenever  consciousness  returned;  she  could  do 
nothing  for  him,  and  envied  the  nurses  whose  task  it  was  to 
wait  upon  the  patients.  It  would  have  been  her  greatest 
pleasure  in  life  to  nurse  him  back  to  life  and  health;  but 
this  was  denied  her.  All  that  she  could  do  was  to  be  unob- 
trusively useful  in  small  ways,  such  as  arranging  to  meet 
Lady  Adela  at  the  station,  and  looking  out  lodgings  for  her 
near  the  hospital,  in  case  she  wished  to  stay  there  rather 
than  with  friends. 

Edmund  offered,  rather  doubtfully,  to  go  with  her  to  the 
station,  but  Lisbeth  declined  his  escort.  She  knew  that  the 
name  of  Oeighton  was  not  acceptable  in  Lady  Adela's  ears; 
for,  with  the  inconsistency  of  a  haughty  and  somewhat 
overbearing  nature,  the  mother  had  never  forgiven  Alys  for 
deserting  her  son  and  marrying  Edmund  Oeighton,  even 
though  she  did  not  want  the  girl  as  her  own  daughter-in- 
law.  And  Lisbeth  knew  the  feeling,  without  quite  under- 
standing it.  But  it  was  characteristic  of  Lisbeth  to  know 
and  respect  a  great  many  feelings  and  fancies  which  she 
did  not  understand.  And  therefore  she  quietly  got  rid  of 
Edmund's  company  as  soon  as  she  could. 

At  the  hour  when  Lady  Adela  had  telegraphed  that  she 
would  arrive,  Lisbeth  was  on  the  platform  at  Euston  sta- 
tion, awaiting  her.  Her  eye,  roving  up  and  down  the  car- 
riages as  the  train  steamed  in,  soon  found  the  person  whom 
she  sought.     Lady  Adela  alighted  slowly  and  rather  feebly 


304  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

from  a  first-class  carriage,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  confi- 
dential maid.  Her  eyesight  was  still  available  for  purposes 
of  ordinary  movement,  although  she  had  almost  ceased  to 
be  able  to  read  or  write;  but  she  was  nervous  about  railway 
travelling,  and  had  not  dared  to  come  alone.  Lisbeth's 
heart  yearned  over  her,  and  she  saw  the  signs  of  failing 
strength  in  her  slow  uncertain  movement,  and  the  tightness 
with  which  she  clung  to  Martha  Morris's  faithful  arm.  It 
would  have  been  a  delight  to  Lisbeth  to  minister  to  Frank's 
mother  in  every  possible  way,  almost  as  great  a  delight  as 
to  minister  to  him,  and  she  was  glad  to  think  that  she  could 
render  her  any  service. 

She  stepped  forward  through  the  crowd,  and  touched 
Martha  on  the  arm,  then  addressed  herself  with  peculiar  re- 
spectfulness to  Lady  Adela. 

"Good  evening,  my  lady;  I  am  glad  you  are  able  to 
come  to  see  Mr.  Frank." 

She  did  not  usually  say  "  my  lady,"  and  she  did  not  usu- 
ally say  "  Mr.  Frank " ;  but  instinct  told  her  that  Lady 
Adela  would  like  her  better  as  the  farmer's  grand-daughter 
in  London,  than  as  the  Miss  Verrall  of  Quest,  about  whom 
the  Creighton's  buzzed  in  somewhat  scornful  admiration. 
And  she  was  right.  Lady  Adela  did  not  feel  so  lonely  in 
the  crowd  when  some  one  came  up  and  spoke  to  her  as  the 
country  people  spoke  to  her  about  Moor  End. 

"  Oh,  it  is  you,  is  it,  Lisbeth  Verrall  ? "  she  said,  holding 
out  her  hand.  "  That  is  very  nice ;  you  have  come  to  meet 
me,  I  suppose.  Most  kind  of  you — or  are  you  here  only  on 
your  own  business  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  meet  you,  my  lady.  Martha,  you  can  go  and 
see  about  the  boxes,  please,  while  I  wait  here  with  my  lady. 
You  will  find  us  here  when  you  come  back." 

"Very  well,  Miss  Verrall,"  said  Martha,  civilly  enough, 
for  she  had  known  Lisbeth  all  her  life,  and  had  a  good  deal 
of  respect  for  her.  But  there  was  a  new  idea  in  Martha's 
mind  as  she  went  to  look  for  the  luggage.  "  Well,  Lisbeth 
Verrall  is  come  out,  to  be  sure !  She  looks  just  like  a  lady. 
And  yet  her  things  are  plain  enough,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 


IN  HOSPITAL.  305 

and  all  black,  too.  But  she's  as  well  dressed  as  my  lady, 
and  looks  rare  an'  handsome  as  ever  she  did.  My  lady 
might  see  her  son  choosing  worse." 

Which  shows  that  Martha  had  heard  the  current  gossip 
in  her  northern  home. 

Lady  Adela  was  too  dim-sighted  to  take  note  of  Lisbeth's 
dress:  but  she  was  struck  by  the  grace  of  the  tall  figure,  the 
refinement  of  the  strong,  clear-cut  features,  and  the  beauty 
of  her  sweet  expression.  One  would  never  think  that  she 
was  a  country  girl,  thought  the  aristocratic  lady,  glancing 
at  her.  Yet  Lisbeth's  long  black  cloak  and  small  close  bon- 
net were  almost  as  plain  as  those  of  a  hospital  nurse;  it  was 
only  the  smaller  details  of  her  dress  that  betrayed  her. 
The  cloak  was  lined  with  silk,  and  edged  with  soft  black 
fur ;  the  belt  of  her  dress  was  clasped  with  a  finely  wrought 
silver  buckle— a  gift  from  Alys,  by  the  way ;  her  gloves  and 
boots  were  unexceptionable.  Lisbeth  always  had  a  taste  for 
perfection  in  small  matters  as  well  as  great,  and  these  were 
the  things  that  gave  the  impression  of  refinement  and  dis- 
tinction, although  most  of  them  were  lost  in  Lady  Adela's 
half  blind  eyes. 

u  How  did  you  know,  Lisbeth  ?  Why  did  you  come  ? " 
she  said,  clinging  to  Lisbeth's  arm,  half  nervously. 

"  I  went  with  Mr.  Frank  to  the  hospital,  my  lady,  and  it 
was  I  who  sent  you  the  telegram. " 

"  What  has  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  very  brave  and  noble  act,''  said  Lisbeth,  her 
eye  kindling.  "  He  saw  a  man  in  danger  of  being  run  over 
—knocked  down  by  the  horses  and  on  the  point  of  being 
trampled  on,  and  he  sprang  forward  to  help  him.  Then  he 
was  knocked  down  himself — and  hurt." 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,  much  hurt  ?  " 

"  He  is  suffering  a  good  deal.  But  I  think  the  injuries 
are  not  dangerous.     The  nurse  says  so." 

"  My  dear,  brave,  noble  boy !  " 

"  That  was  not  the  best  of  it,"  said  Lisbeth,  speaking  close 
to  her  ear,  so  that  she  should  be  distinctly  heard,  as  the  noise 
of  the  crowd  swept  by.     uThe  best  was,  that  the  man  he 


306  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

saved  was  the  man  whom  he  once  thought  his  enemy — who 
was  his  enemy  in  a  certain  sense — Mr.  Edmund  Creigh- 
ton." 

"  The  man  that  stole  Alys  away  from  him !  My  poor 
boy!" 

"Then,"  said  Lisbeth,  concluding  rather  lamely,  "Mr. 
Creighton  and  I  took  him  to  the  nearest  hospital.  Mr. 
Creighton  proposed  to  take  him  to  his  own  house;  but  I 
thought  you,  my  lady — and  Mr.  Frank,  too— would  not  like 
it." 

"  No ;  you  were  quite  right,  Lisbeth.  What  a  strange 
thing  that  you  and  Mr.  Creighton  should  meet  him  in  that 
way ! "  said  Lady  Adela,  taking  it  for  granted  that  Lisbeth 
and  Edmund  had  been  walking  out  together.  Lisbeth  halted 
a  moment  before  replying,  then  went  on  composedly — 

"  I  did  not  know  what  you  would  like  to  do  about  being 
near  him,  my  lady ;  so  I  just  looked  at  two  or  three  sets  of 
apartments  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  I  found  one  which  I 
thought  would  suit  you,  if  you  would  like  to  take  it— quite 
near  the  hospital,  so  that  you  could  go  there  every  day." 

"Oh,  Lisbeth,  what  a  good,  thoughtful  creature  you 
are ! "  cried  Lady  Adela,  effusively.  "  I  was  wondering 
what  I  should  do,  and  wishing  that  I  had  telegraphed  to 
the  k  Victoria ' — but  even  that  is  a  good  way  off  and  it  is 
very  expensive.  Martha  would  much  prefer  lodgings,  I 
know." 

"  Shall  we  drive  there  at  once  ? "  said  Lisbeth,  smiling  a 
little  at  this  unconscious  tribute  to  Martha's  dominion  over 
her  mistress.  "  We  might  as  well  go  there,  and  I  can  help 
Martha  to  unpack,  for  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  him  to- 
night." 

"  Not  to-night  ?    Must  I  wait  till  morning  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  good  sign.  He  is  not  ill  enough  for  friends  to 
be  admitted  at  all  hours,"  said  Lisbeth,  cheerfully;  and  then, 
as  Martha  came  up,  followed  by  a  porter,  wheeling  a  truck 
with  the  luggage,  she  moved  forward,  too,  and  guided  Lady 
Adela's  footsteps  to  a  four-wheeled  cab. 

At  the  door  she  hesitated.     "  Perhaps  you  would  like  to 


IN  HOSPITAL.  307 

go  alone,  my  lady,"  she  said  quietly.  "  Shall  Martha  and  I 
follow,  with  the  boxes,  in  another  cab  ?" 

Martha  glowered  at  the  suggestion,  which  Lady  Adela 
promptly  negatived. 

"  Certainly  not,  Lisbeth ;  what  nonsense !  Get  in  at  once. 
Sit  by  me,  Martha  will  sit  opposite.  The  boxes  will  go  on 
the  roof.  What  should  we  have  done  without  Miss  Verrall, 
Martha  ? " 

"  Indeed,  my  lady,  Miss  Verrall's  always  welcome  wher- 
ever she  goes,''  said  Martha,  primly ;  and  she  did  not  pay 
compliments  without  meaning  them. 

The  jolting  of  the  cab  over  the  stones  prevented  any  sus- 
tained conversation  during  the  long  drive  from  Euston,  and 
Lady  Adela  was  heartily  tired  of  it  long  before  the  end. 
But  she  was  extremely  pleased  with  the  lodgiDgs  that  Lis- 
beth had  found  for  her.  They  were  clean,  bright,  and  com- 
fortable; and  the  landlady  was  a  north-country  woman,  who 
knew  Crosthwaite,  and  was  proud  to  entertain  the  lady  of 
Moor  End.  There  could  not  have  been  a  happier  chance. 
Lady  Adela  was  very  gracious.  She  made  Lisbeth  sit  down 
to  tea  with  her,  while  Martha  waited  on  them  both.  Curi- 
ous to  relate,  Lisbeth  had  never  before  broken  bread  with 
the  mother  of  the  man  she  loved. 

uAnd  tell  me  all  about  it,  Lisbeth,"  said  Lady  Adela, 
when  Martha  had  retired  to  unpack  the  boxes,  and  Lisbeth 
was  trusting  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go.  "  Tell  me  how 
you  saw  him  first;  whether  you  recognised  him  before  he 
was  knocked  down." 

Lisbeth's  cheeks  flamed,  but  she  answered  courageously, 
"  I  had  been  speaking  with  Mr.  Frank,"  she  said,  after  a  little 
pause. 

"  Speaking  ?  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  you  when  that  Mr.  Creighton 
was  close  by.  I  wonder  at  Frank— poor  boy !  "  said  Lady 
Adela,  with  indignation  swelling  into  tenderness. 

"  No;  Mr.  Creighton  was  not  there." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Lisbeth.  Not  there  ?  I  thought 
you  were  walking  with  Mr.  Creighton." 


308  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

14  No ;  we  were  near  his  house,  but  I  had  not  been  walk- 
ing with  him.  I  had  been  walking  a  little  way  with  Mr. 
Frank,  and  talking  to  him." 

Then  Lady  Adela  took  the  alarm.  Her  back  stiffened 
visibly;  she  drew  up  her  graceful  neck,  and  elevated  her 
chin,  as  she  said — 

"  Oh,  and  how  was  that,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

kt  Lady  Adela,"  said  Lisbeth,  dropping  the  '  my  lady '  for 
the  first  time,  l'you  know  very  well  that  Mr.  Frank  and  I 
have  always  been  great  friends.  And  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  certain  that  no  harm  is  likely  to  come  of  it." 

"  I  know  that,  Lisbeth,"  said  Lady  Adela,  in  a  softened 
voice. 

44  Before  he  went  away  he  promised  me  to  come  to  Quest 
again.  I  asked  him  to  promise  that,  because  he  was  talking 
wildly,  and  I  thought  he  might  be  tempted;  you  know,  my 
lady,  when  men  are  in  sore  straits,  they  do  sometimes  think 
they  can  end  matters  altogether  with  their  life ;  and  I  was 
afraid  for  him,  and  also  for  you." 

Lady  Adela  turned  her  face  to  the  fire,  and  said  nothing. 

44  So  I  made  him  promise  to  come  back,  at  least  once— to 
Quest.  I  thought  that  I  might  be  able  to  cheer  him  up  if  he 
came,  for  he  was  in  the  habit  of  turning  to  me  in  his  trou- 
bles, and  I  did  not  think  it  any  wrong  to  you,  my  lady,  to 
take  his  word  for  it.  So  he  came  to  Quest— but  I  had  gone 
away." 

41  He  came  to  Quest  ?    Since  his  return  ? " 

"  Yes,  he  had  promised ;  and  he  came." 

44  So  near  me,  and  yet  I  never  saw  him !  Lisbeth,  you 
had  more  influence  than  I. " 

Lisbeth  shook  her  head.  "  It  was  just  that  he  had  given 
his  word,  and  did  not  like  to  break  it.  Then,  on  finding 
that  I  was  away,  that  I  had  not  kept  my  part  of  the  com- 
pact, so  to  speak,  for  I  told  him  that  I  should  be  always 
there,  he  rushed  off,  never  thinking  of  his  home,  and  took 
the  train  for  London.  And  then  he  read  in  a  newspaper  of 
my  poor  sister's  mishap,  and  he  knew  where  I  had  gone." 

"  Did  he  write  to  you? " 


IN  HOSPITAL.  309 

"  Yes,  my  lady.  He  asked  me  to  meet  him,  for  he  wanted 
to  say  good-bye  before  he  set  sail  for  America." 

"  Ah,  that  dreadful  America!  He  cannot  go  just  yet,  at 
any  rate.'" 

"  He  is  not  going  at  all,"  said  Lisbeth,  in  her  sedate  quiet 
tones.  "  He  has  given  up  the  plan.  He  was  going  back  to 
Moor  End,  my  lady,  to  live  with  you." 

Lady  Adela  looked  up,  her  face  irradiated  with  a  mix- 
ture of  pleasure  and  of  pain.  "Lisbeth,  do  I  owe  that  to 
you?" 

uNo,"  said  Lisbeth,  curtly,  "to  Alys — not  to  me." 

"To— Alys!" 

*'  I  tried  my  best.  I  told  him  of  his  duty,  but  he  would 
not  heed.  And  I  told  my  sister,  and  she  begged  of  him — if 
he  forgave  her  for  her  fickleness — to  stay  in  England.  Then 
he  gave  way.  No ;  it  was  not  my  doing — I  wish  it  had  been," 
said  Lisbeth. 

"  Then  he  has  not  forgotten  her — he  has  not  got  over  it  ? " 
said  Lady  Adela,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

Lisbeth  was  silent,  she  could  answer  neither  yea  or  nay. 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,  if  only  he  had  never  met  her !  "  said  Lady 
Adela,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands  to  hide  her  tears. 
"  Oh,  if  at  least  she  could  have  been  true  to  him !  I  would 
not  have  opposed  it  now.  I  would  have  made  her  my  dear 
daughter,  if  only  she  had  been  constant  and  true.  She  has 
broken  his  heart." 

And  again  Lisbeth  did  not  answer.  Somehow,  she  felt 
as  if  Lady  Adela  were  cruel  to  say  all  this  to  her.  If  that 
opposition,  now  so  easily  withdrawn,  had  not  been  feared  in 
the  first  instance,  Frank  and  Alys  might  have  now  been 
man  and  wife,  Zadock  might  still  be  tramping  about  the 
farm  at  Quest,  and  Lisbeth  herself— well,  Lisbeth  would 
have  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  those  she  loved 
were  happy ;  and  that  would  have  been  joy  enough  for  her. 

She  said  good-night  to  Lady  Adela  as  soon  as  she  could, 
but  promised  to  come  next  morning  and  go  with  her  to  the 
hospital.  She  found  Alys  restless  and  uneasy  at  her  long 
absence,  but  on  the  whole  decidedly  better.     It  had  been  de- 


310  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

cided  that  she  was  to  go  abroad  with  her  husband,  as  soon 
as  she  was  strong  enough  to  be  moved ;  and  she  seemed  to 
take  some  pleasure  in  the  prospect.  "  When  I  get  into  the 
sunshine,"  she  repeated  more  than  once,  "  I  shall  get  well,  as 
I  did  before." 

The  first  visit  paid  by  Lady  Adela  to  her  son  was  not  al- 
together a  success.  No  doubt  it  was  to  her  a  very  trying 
occasion.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  two  years  at  all:  and 
to  find  him  stretched  upon  a  hospital  bed,  suffering  severe 
pain,  and  almost  too  weak  to  speak  to  her,  was  more  than 
she  knew  how  to  bear.  She  wept  over  him,  and  disturbed 
him  so  much  that  the  nurse  had  to  suggest  her  departure, 
and  remarked  to  Lisbeth  that  the  lady  must  not  come  unless 
she  could  exercise  a  little  more  self-control.  Lisbeth  got 
Lady  Adela  away,  but  herself  came  back,  and  sat  with  Frank 
for  a  little  while.  It  was  not  long,  indeed,  before  the  nurse 
remarked  that  Miss  Verrall's  presence  had  a  remarkably 
soothing  effect  upon  the  patient.  He  was  always  quieter 
and  cooler  when  she  had  been  sitting  beside  him,  and  slept 
more  restfully,  whereas  his  mother's  visits  roused  and  irri- 
tated him  rather  more  than  was  advisable. 

"  You  are  not  a  relation  of  his,  are  you  ? "  said  one  of  the 
nurses  to  Lisbeth,  one  afternoon. 

"  No,  only  a  friend." 

"  Not  engaged  to  him,  or  anything  ?  Excuse  my  asking, 
but  you  have  such  an  extraordinary  influence  over  him.  It's 
like  magnetism.  If  you  were  nursing  him  all  the  time,  he 
would  get  well  twice  as  fast,  I  believe." 

"  I  have  been  told  sometimes  that  I  am  a  pretty  good 
nurse,"  said  Lisbeth,  with  a  smile. 

"Yes;  but  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  meant  that  you 
seemed  to  have  a  peculiar  power  over  him.  But  you  would 
make  a  capital  nurse.  Why  don't  you  come  here  and 
train  ? " 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Lisbeth ;  but  it  was  an  idea 
which  possessed  a  certain  charm  for  her.  Lately  it  had  ap- 
peared to  her  more  than  ever  impossible  that  she  should 
continue  to  live  at  Quest.     She  had  remained  there  during 


IN  HOSPITAL.  3H 

the  period  of  Frank's  imprisonment,  chiefly  from  that  vague 
romantic  desire  that  he  should  find  her  there  when  he  came 
back  again  ;  but  when  once  he  was  back — settled  at  Moor 
End,  with  no  need  for  her— the  position  would  become  in- 
tolerable. 

Why  should  she  not  let  Quest,  or  even  sell  it,  and  take 
up  some  other  interest  in  life  ?  There  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  stay  in  a  place  which  bristled  with  painful  mem- 
ories, and  when  the  old  wounds  were  likely  to  be  torn  open 
again  at  any  moment.  She  might  come  to  London;  she 
would  have  enough  to  live  upon;  and  give  her  time  to 
nursing  and  good  works.  She  would  be  near  Alys,  and  she 
could  put  Francis  Moor  out  of  her  thoughts  better  in  Lon- 
don than  at  Quest.  If  she  were  at  Quest,  his  mother  would 
take  care  that  she  saw  very  little  of  him,  and  why  should 
she  expose  herself  unnecessarily  to  insult  and  rebuff  ? 

Not  that  Lady  Adela  was  rude  or  unkind.  Only,  as  time 
went  on,  and  Frank  grew  rather  better,  the  mother  showed 
pretty  clearly  that  she  did  not  want  other  visitors  than  she 
considered  herself  sufficient  for  her  son.  She  made  Lisbeth 
feel  herself  in  the  way.  She  was  never  uncivil,  but  she  be- 
came cold.  Even  although  Frank's  eyes  lighted  up  at  the 
sight  of  Lisbeth,  and  the  nurses  declared  that  she  did  him 
more  good  than  all  the  doctors,  Lady  Adela  was  undisguis- 
edly  jealous  of  her.  She  did  not  think  that  Frank  was 
likely  to  fall  in  love  with  Lisbeth ;  but  she  began  to  find  it 
absurd  that  he  should  call  a  farmer's  grand-daughter  his 
"  friend."  What  friendship  was  really  possible  between  the 
master  of  Moor  End  and  the  lowlier  mistress  of  Quest  ? 

As  soon  as  it  was  possible,  Lady  Adela  swept  her  son 
back  to  Moor  End,  with  a  trained  nurse,  on  whom  she  relied 
implicitly.  But  she  said  no  word  to  Lisbeth  about  coming 
to  see  him  when  she  too  returned  to  Crosthwaite.  And  Lis- 
beth noted  the  omission  with  a  set  lip  and  a  troubled  eye. 


312  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

EDMUND  MAKES  AMENDS. 

LlSBETH  remained  in  London  until  Alys  left  England 
with  her  husband.  It  was  astonishing  to  most  people  that 
Edmund  Creighton  should  throw  up  his  work  so  suddenly 
and  so  completely  for  the  sake  of  his  invalid  wife;  and 
many  persons  said  that  his  career  would  be  entirely  ruined ; 
but  Lisbeth  was  not  surprised.  Underneath  a  demeanour 
which  was  coolly  complacent  to  the  verge  of  smugness,  be- 
neath an  exterior  of  perfect  conventionality  and  correctness, 
she  had  distinguished  something  more, — a  capacity  for  love, 
which  had  long  been  overlaid  by  the  artificial  conditions  of 
his  life,  but  which  Alys  had  brought  to  the  surface,  and 
which  had,  for  the  present  at  least,  become  the  ruling 
motive  of  his  existence. 

Slowly  and  steadily  it  had  been  gaining  ground.  And 
as  an  unselfish  love  tends  in  the  long  run  to  purify  and  en- 
noble, it  follows  that  Edmund  Creighton  was  now  a  better 
man  than  he  had  been  when  he  first  made  love  to  pretty 
Alys  Lorimer  in  her  fathers  house.  It  was  a  love  that 
gathered  strength  from  opposition.  When  his  mother  first 
manifested  her  dislike  to  Alys,  his  affection  had  been  but 
weak;  when  she  was  poor  and  oppressed,  it  grew  stronger; 
and  when  she  actually  refused  him  for  another  man,  it  be- 
came an  overmastering  force.  No  doubt  love  of  power  had 
something  to  do  with  its  development;  he  was  a  man  who 
could  not  bear  to  be  beaten.  And  when  he  had  a  chance  of 
out-manceuvring  his  rival,  he  availed  himself  of  it  without 
remorse.  The  remorse — if  one  can  call  the  regret  which 
was  beginning  to  gather  force  within  his  bosom  by  as  definite 
a  name — started  into  being  with  the  sight  of  Alys's  strong 
feeling  on  the  subject;  with  the  unexpected  death  of  his 
child;  with  the  discovery  that  he  owed  his  life  to  the  man 
whom  he  had  wronged.  Edmund  was  not  an  impulsive 
man,  and  it  took  him  some  time  to  find  all  these  things  out. 


EDMUND  MAKES  AMENDS.  313 

But  he  had  some  sort  of  rudimentary  conscience;  and  when 
it  took  to  growing  it  showed  him  something  of  the  truth. 

Love  and  remorse  are  two  potent  factors  to  enter  willy- 
nilly  into  a  man's  life.  They  have  a  way  of  reversing 
things,  which  is  neither  profitable  nor  pleasant.  It  was  not 
to  Edmund's  advantage  to  leave  London  for  his  wife's  sake 
at  that  particular  time  of  the  year;  and  yet  he  did  it,  because 
it  dawned  upon  him  that  he  loved  her  better  than  his  own 
advantage.  He  knew  that  his  absence  for  a  few  weeks  would 
not  ruin  him,  though  it  would  not  by  any  means  advance 
his  career.  But  for  Alys's  sake  he  would  risk  even  his 
worldly  prosperity— perhaps  the  thing  that  had  been  dearest 
to  him  all  his  life  before. 

And  there  was  another  matter  that  troubled  him.  Fran- 
cis Moor,  lying  crippled  and  disabled  at  St.  George's  Hos- 
pital, having  risked  his  life  to  save  that  of  Edmund  Creigh- 
ton,  who  had  robbed  him  of  the  woman  he  loved  and  done 
his  best  to  ruin  him— this  was  a  picture  which  he  did  not 
like  to  look  upon.  And  yet  it  was  imperative  that  he  should 
see  Frank  Moor  before  he  went  back  to  Moor  End ;  it  would 
be  out  of  the  question  to  let  him  leave  London  without  a 
word  of  thanks.  So,  groaning  in  spirit,  Edmund  went  to 
the  hospital  the  day  before  Frank's  departure.  He  had  told 
Lisbeth  that  he  meant  to  go,  and  asked  her  to  get  him  five 
minutes  with  Frank  alone.  u  For  I  don't  think  I  can  stand 
the  mother;  she  used  to  scowl  at  me  so  tremendously  when 
we  were  at  Crosthwaite,"  he  observed. 

Lisbeth  smiled.  "  I  am  glad  that  you  are  going  to  see 
Mr.  Moor." 

"  You  had  better  ask  him  beforehand  whether  he  objects. 
Of  course  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  object,"  said  Ed- 
mund, assuming  his  most  flippant  air.  "  I  shall  not  detain 
him  five  minutes,  it  is  a  purely  formal  business,  but  it  would 
scarcely  be  handsome  to  let  him  go  north  without  assuring 
him  of  my  gratitude,  would  it  ?  "—and  he  laughed  rather 
nervously. 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Lisbeth,  discerning 
something  unusually  serious  behind  the  air  of  badinage. 


314  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

But  she  hardly  knew  what  to  say  when  Frank,  with  a  sick 
man's  irritability,  tried  to  decline  the  visit  altogether. 

u  What  does  he  want  to  see  me  for  ?  It's  absurd. 
Thanks  between  him  and  me  are  a  ridiculous  formality. 
For  heaven's  sake,  Lisbeth,  keep  the  fellow  out  of  my 
sight." 

But  it  was  too  late.  Mr.  Creighton  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  Lisbeth  had  made  all  preliminary  arrange- 
ments, and  was  now  ushered  into  the  room  by  a  nurse. 

Frank  fell  back  on  his  pillow  with  something  between  a 
grunt  and  a  groan.  He  eyed  Edmund  with  distaste.  He 
had  no  liking  for  Alys's  husband,  even  if  he  had  involun- 
tarily saved  his  life.  And  he  wished  Lisbeth  would  uot  go. 
She  could  always  protect  him  better  than  anybody  else,  be- 
cause she  seemed  to  know  instinctively  how  he  felt.  But 
she  had  already  gone,  and  he  and  Edmund  Creighton  were 
alone. 

"  I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding,"  said  the  visitor 
stiffly.  "  I  heard  that  you  were  leaving  the  hospital  very 
shortly,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  you  for  a  moment, 
and  to  express  my  thanks  for  the  action,  which — which  has 
had  such  very  unfortunate  results." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Frank,  feeling  slightly 
incensed.  "  But  there  is  no  occasion  to  express  any  thanks 
at  all.  I  suppose  that  you  understand  that  the  action,  as 
you  call  it,  would  have  been  performed  for  a  tramp  just  as 
soon  as  for  yourself." 

"  I  quite  understand  that  it  was  not  from  a  personal  mo- 
tive. You  would  have  been  better  pleased  to  save  the 
tramp." 

u  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  use  denying  it.  I  was  actuated 
by  no  sublime  motive  of  pure  beneficence  towards  you,  as 
some  of  the  women  seem  to  think.  If  I  had  seen  your  face 
— I  might  never  have  moved  an  inch." 

"I  am  glad  you  say  so,"  said  Edmund,  coldly;  "for  it 
makes  my  position  much  less  unendurable." 

"  Unendurable  ?  "  said  Frank,  eyeing  him  steadily.  u  I 
think  I  fail  to  grasp  your  meaning." 


EDMUND  MAKES  AMENDS.  315 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  of  much  use  to  say  any  more.  I 
felt  that  I  owed  you  an  apology— that  was  all.  If  you  dis- 
claim all  desire  of  benefiting"  me — well,  perhaps  I  was 
wrong,  and  I  will  not  apologise  after  all." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  anything  to  apologise 
for,"  said  Frank,  knitting  his  brows.  It  struck  him  as  atro- 
cious that  Edmund  should  u  ax3ologise  "  for  robbing  him  of 
Alys,  which  was  what  he  understood  by  these  enigmatical 
words.  But  Edmund  had  an  entirely  different  meaning, 
which  he  now  endeavoured  to  make  plain. 

"  Of  course,  you  are  not  aware  of  it,"  he  said.  "  There  is 
no  need  for  me  to  tell  you— except  that  I  feel  I  shall  be  more 
of  a  man  if  I  do  it — that  perhaps  I  owe  you  the  truth.  It  is 
just  this— I  believe  now  that  I  once  misjudged  and  misrepre- 
sented you.  What  I  then  said  had  some  effect  on  the  mind 
of  another,  and  if  another  misjudged  you,  it  was  more  my 
fault  than — hers." 

"  I  always  thought  so,"  said  Frank.  "  Pray  say  no  more. 
I  appreciate  your  motive,  but  there  is  no  use  in  calling  up 
these  old  memories." 

His  face  was  pale,  but  Edmund's  was  still  paler. 

"I  did  not  say  it  to  give  you  pleasure,  Mr.  Moor.  I  tell 
you  the  truth  for  my  own  benefit.  It  was  a  selfish  motive, 
I  acknowledge.     Yet  I  have  something  else  to  say." 

His  voice  grew  so  hoarse  that  Frank  looked  at  him  in 
amaze,  and  as  he  went  on  speaking,  a  hot  colour  flushed  his 
brow.  It  seemed  as  if  what  he  said  cost  him  a  prodigious 
effort,  and  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  get  out  the  words. 

"  I  have  told  Alys  she  wishes  me  to  say  it  too.  I  fear  I 
must  make  same  allusion  to  a  painful  subject,  for  which,  I 
hope,  you  will  pardon  me.  At  the  trial,  some  mention  was 
made  of  a  knife  .  .  .  you  know  the  knife  I  mean.  It  was 
denied  that  the  man  Verrall  possessed  such  a  knife,  or  had 
been  seen  to  handle  it.  I  had  seen  him  with  it  in  his  hand, 
and  had  heard  him  threaten  you  with  it;  but  I  held  my 
tongue." 

"You  were  there,"  said  Frank  slowly;  "you  heard  the 
evidence;  you  knew  the  effect  such  a  piece  of  evidence 


316  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

would  have  had  on  the  minds  of  the  jury  ?  and  you  held 
your  tongue  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Edmund.  He  was  white  again  now,  white 
to  the  very  lips.  "  I  wish  to  say,"  he  added  hurriedly,  "  that 
I  am  perfectly  willing  now  to  publish  a  statement  of  the 
fact,  and  leave  the  public  to  think  what  they  will  of  me.  It 
would  no  doubt  cause  a  great  revolution  of  feeling  in  your 
favour,  although  the  verdict  could  not  be  reversed.  I  don't 
suppose  it  would  affect  the  law,  of  course ;  but  it  would  affect 
public  opinion." 

"I  think  it  would  affect  public  opinion  of  you  rather 
than  of  me,"  said  Frank  quietly. 

"  I  think  it  might,     I  am  prepared  for  that." 

"  Prepared  for  that  !  Why,  good  Lord,  man,  it  would 
make  you  a  public  laughing  stock,  or  worse.  It  would 
mean  ruin  to  your  career." 

"  Possibly.  Isn't  your  career  ruined  in  the  same  way  ? " 
said  Edmund,  still  in  the  hoarse  unnatural  voice  in  which 
his  confession  had  been  made. 

" You  have  your  wife  to  think  of;  I  have  none." 

"  She  is  as  anxious  as  I  am  that  some  atonement  should 
be  made  to  you  for  all  you  have  suffered.  She  urged  me 
before  I  came  out  to  write  a  letter  to  the  papers,  and  tell  the 
whole  story,  including  her  own  regret  for  what  she  had  said 
at  the  trial.  I  told  her,"  hesitating  a  little,  "  that  I  did  not 
think  you  would  desire  that ;  as  far,  at  least,  as  she  was  con- 
cerned." 

"  Great  heavens  !  no.  I  never  heard  of  such  an  extraor- 
dinary proposition." 

"  It  would  make  a  great  difference  to  you.  That  is  why 
I  came  to  say  it.  I  owe  you  something :  I  am  willing  to — 
to  pay.     I  will  write  to  the  Times." 

He  moved  towards  the  door,  hat  and  stick  in  hand,  as  if 
wishful  to  be  gone ;  his  face  was  averted  from  Frank,  who 
tried  in  vain  to  catch  his  eye. 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  the  young  man.  "  Don't  go  off  in  such  a 
hurry.  I  must  think.  How  can  one  answer  a  thing  like 
this  all  at  once  ?    Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  make  a  difference 


EDMUND   MAKES  AMENDS.  317 

in  public  opinion.  People  would  see  that  that  poor  fool  had 
a  grudge  against  me,  which  those  idiots  at  the  trial  would 
not  see.  But  do  you  suppose  I  can  let  you  do  it  ?  Tut,  let 
sleeping  dogs  lie.  The  matter  is  half  forgotten  already; 
why  rake  it  up  again  ?  " 

"  Fiat  justitia,"  muttered  Edmund,  with  his  hand  on  the 
door. 

"  The  heavens  shall  not  fall  for  me,"  said  Frank,  loudly. 
"No;  for  your  wife's  sake,  Creighton,  for  Alys's  sake,  the 
thing  shall  not  be  done." 

"She  wishes  it  ;  she  thinks  it  right." 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  right  as  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
you  are  right  to  be  willing  to  do  it.  It  would  not  be  right 
for  me  to  accept  the  sacrifice.  You  have  come  to  me.  I 
accept  that  as  sufficient  atonement;  I  want  no  more. 
Come  back,  Creighton,  come  back  and  shake  hands  over  it, 
and  let  us  both  hold  our  tongues." 

The  colour  had  risen  again  to  Edmund's  cheek. 

"  Your  generosity  shames  me,"  he  said  ;  and  although  he 
relinquished  his  hold  upon  the  door,  he  stood  still,  with  his 
eyes  cast  down.  "I  have  wronged  you  in  every  way,"  he 
said,  with  the  stiff  reluctant  manner  of  one  who  forces  words 
out  of  himself  against  the  grain;  "  and— I  have  regretted  it 
ever  since." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,"  said  Frank.  "  The  best  way  is 
to  think  of  the  matter  as  it  affects  her.  You  must  be  silent 
— as  I  shall  be— for  her  sake." 

Edmund  paused  for  a  moment,  then  walked  back  to  the 
bedside  and  took  the  offered  hand,  saying  deliberately — 

"  Apology  is  a  poor  word.  I  came  to  ask  your  pardon, 
and  did  not  know  how  to  say  it.     I  say  it  now. " 

"We  are  friends  from  this  moment.  Don't  think  of  it 
again.  Only  tell  me  one  thing — was  it  simply  this  acci- 
dent of  mine  that  made  you  resolve  to  tell  me— and  the 
world  ? " 

Edmund  knitted  his  brows,  and  looked  as  if  he  did  not 
want  to  reply.     But  there  was  something  in  Frank's  sympa- 
thetic personality  which  impelled  even  Edmund  Creighton 
21 


318  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

to  confidence.  He  looked  into  the  listening  dark  eyes  as  lie 
spoke. 

"  There  is  an  old  story,"  he  said,  in  a  hesitating,  rather 
shamefaced  way,  "  of  the  ring  of  Polycrates — you  know  it  ?" 

'*  The  man  who  cast  his  ring  into  the  sea  that  he  might 
propitiate  the  gods.  I  know  Schiller's  poem  as  well  as  the 
classic.     Go  on.     I  don't  see." 

"  It  was  a  superstitious  fancy  that  haunted  me.  I  thought 
that  if  I  made  the  sacrifice  .  .  .  the  gods  would  let  me  go 
free.     Perhaps  they  may." 

u  Upon  my  word  I  don't  understand." 

"It  is  silly  fancy,"  said  Edmund,  moving  away.  "  My 
wife  is  ill — the  doctors  fear  that  she  may  not  recover ;  or 
that  if  she  recovers  her  mind  may  be  affected.  It  seems  a 
silly  enough  notion  that  the  wrath  of  the  gods  should  be 
averted  by  any  sacrifice  of  ours,  does  it  not  ?  Yet  I  have 
wished  many  a  time  that  I  could  believe  it — or  that  I  lived 
in  a  day  when  any  sacrifice  could  avail. " 

Frank  scarcely  grasped  the  sense  of  these  latter  words. 
He  was  struck  with  dismay. 

"  Is  she  so  ill  ?  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"She  may  get  better,"  Edmund  answered,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  eyes;  and  then  throwing  back  his  head  as  if 
to  avert  a  premonition  of  evil,  "  and  that  is  why  I  am  taking 
her  abroad.  Change  of  air— change  of  scene— is  what  the 
doctors  say  she  wants.     And  peace  of  mind." 

They  said  no  more;  for  at  that  moment,  the  nurse  ap- 
peared to  say  that  the  interview  had  lasted  long  enough. 
But  they  parted  on  friendly  terms,  as  Frank  had  never 
thought  to  part  with  the  man  who  had  injured  him.  It  was 
long  before  he  could  forget  what  Edmund  had  told  him,  or 
put  away  the  thought  of  Alys,  ill  and,  perhaps,  unhappy, 
going  away  from  England  to  suffer—  perhaps— for  who 
could  tell  ? — to  die. 

Lisbeth  wondered  a  little  at  his  silence  concerning  the 
interview.  He  told  her  nothing;  he  could  not  bear  to  re- 
peat what  Edmund  had  said  to  him.  Besides,  he  thought 
that  it  might  give  her  pain.     So  the  day-  came  when  he  said 


EDMUND  MAKES  AMENDS.  319 

farewell  to  her,  and  was  carried  north  in  an  invalid-carriage, 
with  his  mother  triumphant  at  his  side. 

u  You  live  near  them,  don't  you  ? "  said  the  nurse  who 
had  spoken  to  Lisbeth  before  about  her  marvellous  influence 
over  the  patient's  nerves. 

"Yes,  quite  near." 

"  Are  you  going  home  soon  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Why  ?  " 

"  Because  they  will  want  you  soon,"  said  the  nurse,  with 
a  significant  smile. 

"  Want  me  ?  "  said  Lisbeth,  drawing  back. 

"  Yes,  want  you,  Miss  Verrall.  That  good  lady  will  fidget 
him  to  death." 

"  But  Nurse  Emma  went  with  him  too." 

"  And  if  she's  wise  she  will  tell  Lady  Adela  Moor  to  send 
for  you.  You  can  quiet  him  when  no  one  else  can.  And 
he's  not  out  of  the  wood  yet.  I  should  be  very  much  afraid 
of  a  relapse— but  she  would  hurry  him  away." 

"  I  am  not  going  hack  for  some  time,"  said  Lisbeth ;  "  and 
even  if  I  were  at  home,  it  is  not  at  all  likely  that  Lady  Adela 
would  want  me.     I  may  never  see  them  again." 

She  spoke  in  rather  a  quelling  tone ;  and  the  nurse,  al- 
though she  smiled  a  superior  smile,  said  nothing  more. 
And  then  Lisbeth,  feeling  strangely  dull  and  quiescent,  went 
back  to  Campden  Hill,  and  helped  to  pack  Alys's  hoxes  for 
her  departure  with  Edmund  to  a  German  spa.  They  had 
asked  Lisheth  to  accompany  them,  hut  she  had  refused.  She 
had  seen  enough  of  Edmund  to  he  sure  that  it  would  be 
better  for  the  two  to  be  together.  Besides,  her  heart  once 
more  yearned  for  Quest.  She  longed  for  the  free  mountain 
air,  the  moorland  breezes,  the  untrammelled  life  of  the 
farm.  And  there  was  attraction  in  the  thought  that  she  would, 
at  least,  be  near  Moor  End ;  that  she  might  some  day  see  Frank 
as  he  drove  in  his  carriage  and  she  walked  by  the  wayside ; 
that  at  any  rate  she  might  hear  of  him,  and  know  how  he 
was  getting  on. 

So  back  she  went  to  Quest,  and  had  a  lonely  time  of  it. 
As  she  had  expected,  Lady  Adela  took  no  notice  of  her 


320  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

existence.  She  saw  nothing  of  Frank,  and  the  nurse  seemed 
to  have  been  sent  away.  Now  and  then  rumours  reached 
her  ears— rumours  that  Mr.  Moor  was  very  ill,  or  that  he 
did  not  get  on  well  with  his  mother,  who  nagged  him  to 
death :  and  so  on.  She  tried  to  shut  her  ears  to  them,  but 
in  spite  of  her  resolution,  they  worried  and  annoyed  her, 
and  the  impossibility  of  getting  at  the  truth  hurt  her  more 
than  all. 

She  had  been  at  home  more  than  a  month,  when  one  day 
she  was  amazed  to  see  Lady  Adela  at  her  door.  She  had 
driven  up  in  a  pony -cart,  and  was  tearful  and  hot  and  em- 
barrassed all  at  once.  She  almost  fell  at  Lisbeth's  feet,  when 
the  mistress  of  Quest  met  her  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Lisbeth,"  she  said,  u  will  you  come  to  him  ?  He 
will  be  better  if  you  come." 

"Is  he  ill  ?"  asked  Lisbeth,  with  white  lips. 

"Yes;  he  is  ill  and  he  wants  you.  I  sometimes  think 
that  if  anybody  can  make  him  better  it  is  you.  And  oh, 
Lisbeth,  tell  him — make  him  understand — that  it  is  only  my 
love  for  him  which  makes  me  so  anxious  and  so  fidgetty, 
and  all  that  I  care  for  is  his  happiness.  You  can  make  him 
do  anything,  Lisbeth.  I  give  him  up  to  you,  if  only  you 
will  come  to  Moor  End  with  me." 

And  Lisbeth  went. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TOO  LATE. 

The  German  watering  place  to  which  Edmund  Creighton 
had  been  recommended  to  take  his  wife  was  a  pretty  little 
town,  set  on  the  borders  of  a  silver  lake,  and  edged  by 
beautifully  wooded  hills.  The  scenery  was  charming,  the 
climate  delightful,  the  company  select.  Edmund  took  a 
suite  of  apartments  in  the  best  hotel,  and  devoted  himself  to 
the  service  of  his  wife,  but  not  with  such  good  results  as  he 
had  anticipated.     He  came  to  her  one  afternoon,  as  she  re- 


TOO  LATE.  321 

clined  on  a  couch  in  the  verandah,  a  spot  from  which  a 
lovely  view  of  the  hill  and  lake  could  be  obtained.  The 
verandah  itself  was  cool  and  in  shadow;  but  the  landscape 
was  bright  with  sunshine,  and  the  scent  of  exquisite  flowers 
was  wafted  to  the  nostrils  from  the  garden,  which  stretched 
for  some  distance  before  the  house. 

But  Alys  was  not  looking  at  the  prospect,  nor  did  she 
seem  to  be  enjoying  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers.  She 
lay  huddled  into  a  corner  of  the  wide  couch,  her  white 
drapery  closely  wrapped  round  her,  and  her  eye  fixed  with 
a  curious  intensity  upon  her  hand.  Even  when  Edmund 
drew  quite  close  to  her,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  the  couch, 
stood  looking  down  on  her,  she  made  no  response. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  flowers,  dearest,1'  he  said  at 
last. 

Then  she  stirred  and  looked  up.  He  showed  her  the 
bunch  of  magnificent  roses  that  he  held,  and  placed  it  gently 
in  her  lap;  but  she  only  uttered  a  languid  word  of  thanks, 
and  showed  no  sign  of  pleasure. 

He  sighed  as  he  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  couch,  and 
seated  himself.  She  looked  very  fair,  but  very  frail,  he 
thought,  in  the  clear  summer  daylight.  Her  face  seemed  to 
have  grown  smaller,  and  the  golden  hair  that  strayed  about 
her  forehead  gave  her  a  childish  look.  There  was  little 
colour  in  her  face ;  even  her  parted  lips  were  pale,  and  the 
dark  shadows  round  her  blue  eyes  made  them  look  large 
and  almost  ghastly. 

Strangers,  on  seeing  her  for  the  first  time,  generally 
exclaimed,  "  How  ill  she  looks !  "  but  the  worst  of  it,  in  Ed- 
mund's opinion,  was,  that  she  was  not  ill.  That  is,  she  had 
no  definite  disease.  There  was  a  gradual  wasting  away,— a 
decline  of  strength ;  and  that  was  all. 

The  one  obscure  symptom  that  puzzled  all  the  doctors 
was  a  certain  confusion  of  thought  and  ideas,  which  some- 
times made  itself  manifest.  She  did  strange  things  some- 
times; she  did  strange  things,  which  made  Edmund's  heart 
contract  with  a  pang  of  fear.  The  best  construction  that 
could  be  put  upon  them  was  that  they  came  simply  from 


322  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

physical  weakness  ;  and  that  if  her  general  health  im- 
proved, her  brain  would  also  recover  tone.  There  seemed 
no  reason,  the  doctors  said,  why  she  should  not  get  well 
and  strong.  Only  she  did  not  do  it,  and  nobody  could  quite 
tell  why. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  for  a  drive  this  afternoon, 
Alys  ? " 

"No,  thank  you." 

The  tone  was  perfectly  apathetic.  "  Have  you  been  out 
to-day  at  all  ?  I  should  like  to  take  you  for  a  sail  on  the 
lake." 

She  made  him  no  answer. 

"  Shall  I  order  a  boat,  dear  ? " 

"No,  thank  you." 

"  Are  you  not  tired  of  lying  here  and  doing  nothing  ? " 

"No." 

"  Alys— Alys,  why  won't  you  rouse  yourself  and  try  to 
get  well  ? " 

The  cry  came  from  his  very  heart.  He  loved  her  pas- 
sionately, and  had  hoped  to  teach  her  to  love  him  in  return. 
For  a  few  days  in  London,  after  their  great  reconciliation, 
and  after  Edmund  had  made  the  confession  to  Frank  Moor, 
upon  which  she  had  insisted,  he  thought  that  he  had 
achieved  his  end;  but  when  Lisbeth  went  away,  she  began 
to  droop,  and  become  daily  more  cold  and  indifferent,  as 
well  as  weaker  in  health.  It  seemed  sometimes  to  him  as  if 
she  did  not  care  to  live. 

She  looked  up  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  and  then  the  blue 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "I  do  try,"  she  whispered,  "but  I 
can't.     It's  no  use." 

"  Darling,  don't  cry.  I  did  not  speak  crossly,  did  I  ?  It 
is  only  that  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  looking  so  weak  and  ill, 
and  caring  for  nothing  or  nobody." 

The  faintest  glimmer  of  a  smile  crossed  her  wan  face. 
"  I  do  care  for  you,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  Do  you,  darling  ?    Do  you  really  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  suddenly  sinking  back  into  indiffer- 
ence, and  closing  her  eyes.     "But  I  am  so  tired." 


TOO  LATE.  323 

That  was  always  the  way.  When  he  had  succeeded  even 
in  rousing  her  attention,  he  could  not  keep  it  for  more  than 
a  minute  or  two.  There  seemed  to  he  no  getting  any  grip 
over  her  mind.  He  sat  and  watched  her  in  speechless 
tribulation.  What  could  he  do  ?  All  his  efforts  seemed 
fruitless,  and  yet  he  felt  himself  compelled  to  try  again. 

"  Alys,  love,  would  you  like  me  to  send  for  Lisbeth  ? " 

"No,"  she  said,  listlessly.  "  Lisbeth  is  busy;  she  told  me 
so." 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  too  busy  to  come  to  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  is ;  she  is  staying  at  Moor  End.  I  had  a 
letter  from  her  last  week." 

M I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Edmund,  encouraging  her  to 
talk.     "  And  what  news  did  she  give  you  ? " 

'*  Oh,  none  in  particular." 

"  Was  Mr.  Moor  better  ? "  asked  her  husband,  somewhat 
incautiously. 

"I  don't  know."  She  turned  her  head  away  and  closed 
her  eyes.  He  saw  his  mistake ;  the  very  mention  of  Frank's 
name  had  stirred  a  train  of  painful  thoughts,  and  she  could 
not  easily  shake  them  off. 

"  I  think  we  might  ask  Julian  to  come  and  see  us,"  he 
said,  trying  to  divert  her  mind. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  was  again  looking  at  her 
hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  he  said,  gently.  "  What  are  you 
looking  at,  dear  ? " 

She  raised  her  blue  eyes  plaintively  to  his  face.  "  It  is 
my  hand,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  complaining  voice.  "  Don't 
you  see  it  ?    Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  get  it  off  ? " 

"Get  what  oft?" 

"  The  stain.  Don't  you  see  it — a  great  red  stain.  It  has 
been  there  ever  since  I  killed  my  child. " 

Edmund's  blood  ran  cold.  He  had  never  heard  her 
speak  in  this  way  before.  Evidently  there  was  some  fixed 
delusion  in  her  mind.  He  remembered  now  how  often  he 
had  seen  her  wearing  gloves.  He  looked  as  she  bade  him, 
at  the  little  wasted  hand,  and  it  was  white  as  snow. 


32-i  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  There  is  nothing  on  your  hand,  darling,"  he  said. 

14  Oh,  yes,  there  is,  Edmund ;  you  must  have  noticed  it. 
It  came  when  I  was  ill.  At  first  I  only  saw  it  now  and 
then,  but  since  we  came  here  it  has  grown  and  grown,  and 
I  am  so  afraid  that  people  will  remark  it  and  ask  what  I 
have  done." 

"  Alys,  my  sweet,  how  can  there  be  ? " 

44  Why,  you  told  me  so  yourself,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  with  the  clear,  collected  gaze  of  one  who  was  perfectly 
aware  of  what  she  was  saying,  and  able  to  judge  correctly 
of  the  propriety  of  her  idea.  "  You  first  made  me  expect  to 
see  it — long  before  it  came.  Don't  you  remember  what  you 
said?" 

44 1  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  dear." 

41  It  was  at  Quest,"  said  Alys,  still  in  the  same  tone  of 
gentle  argument,  "  and  we  were  talking  about  poor  Frank 
Moor.  I  wanted  to  give  him  up  because  I  was  afraid  of 
him,  but  I  was  not  sure  whether  I  was  doing  right,  and  you 
asked  me  how  I  could  marry  a  man  with  blood  on  his  hands. 
That  was  because  he  had  accidentally  killed  Zadock  Verrall, 
you  know.  "Well,  it  is  just  the  same  with  me.  Ever  since 
baby  died,  I  have  had  this  stain  of  blood  on  my  hands." 

Was  it  any  use  to  remonstrate  ?  With  a  qualm  of  agony, 
Edmund  tried  the  experiment. 

"  You  must  know,  dear  Alys,  that  I  spoke  figuratively. 
Frank  Moor  had  no  stain  of  blood  on  his  hands,  in  your 
sense  of  the  words;  neither  have  you." 

44  But  you  said  he  had,"  returned  Alys,  with  mild  per- 
sistence, "  and  I  see  it  myself.  It  is  one  of  those  things  that 
cannot  be  hid." 

"  Why  don't  you  wash  it  off,  then  ? "  he  said,  trying  to 
humour  the  fancy.  "  Get  some  water.  I  will  ring  for  some 
hot  water  and  wash  your  hands  for  you.  Shall  I  carry  you 
in?" 

She  agreed  to  this  proposal  with  some  apparent  pleasure; 
and  Edmund  carried  her  into  the  little  sitting-room  which 
opened  on  the  verandah,  and  rang  the  bell  for  some  hot 
water. 


TOO  LATE.  325 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  come  off  ? "  she  asked,  with  the 
simplicity  of  a  child. 

"  Of  course  it  will,  dear.  You  shall  see,"  he  answered, 
trying  to  speak  cheerily,  and  in  the  most  unconcerned 
fashion  in  the  world,  while  he  felt  as  if  his  heart  would 
break. 

Presently,  a  maid  brought  the  hot  water,  soap,  and  a 
towel.  She  did  not  look  surprised.  She  had  heard  some- 
thing of  the  English  lady's  vagaries  before  this  time.  Ed- 
mund fancied  he  caught  a  glance  of  pity  from  her  eye,  and 
dismissed  her  summarily  from  the  room.  Pity  for  himself 
and  Alys  he  could  not  bear. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her,  and  did  as  she  bade  him — 
sponged  and  rubbed  the  delicate  little  hands  and  dried  them 
on  the  soft  towel,  and  rubbed  them  again.  But,  as  he  might 
have  known,  it  was  all  of  no  use.  As  soon  as  the  hand  was 
dry,  Alys  would  utter  a  su  bdued  cry,  and  say — 

"  Ah,  it  is  no  use.  See,  the  stain  is  coming  back.  It  is 
worse  than  ever.  You  will  never  wash  it  off."  And,  at 
last,  the  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  fell  from  them  like  rain. 

Then  Edmund's  self-possession  gave  way,  as  it  had  never 
done  since  he  had  attained  the  days  of  manhood.  He  laid 
his  head  down  on  Alys's  lap,  and  sobbed  aloud  with  a  pas- 
sion of  grief  and  love.  And  then  she  put  her  hand  softly 
on  his  hair,  and  seemed  to  come  to  herself. 

"  What  is  it,  Edmund  ?  Oh,  Edmund,  don't.  What  is 
the  matter  ? "  she  said. 

But  all  the  reply  he  could  make  was  to  take  the  little 
hand  and  cover  it  with  kisses — alas,  alas  !  with  tears.  All 
remembrance  of  what  she  had  said  seemed  to  have  faded 
from  his  mind.  He  had  to  invent  some  story  of  sudden  ill- 
ness to  account  for  his  emotion,  before  she  could  be  pacified. 

But  this  incident  left  him  a  different  man.  *  He  was  one 
upon  whom  a  great  blow  was  falling,  and  every  day  he  ex- 
pected it  to  come.  He  saw  that  the  doctors'  worst  prognosti- 
cations were  being  verified.  The  mental  shock  caused  by 
the  child's  death,  following  on  the  strain  of  Frank's  trial, 
and  all  that  the  trial  signified,  had  been  too  much  for  her. 


326  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

He  might  as  well  take  her  hack  to  England  at  once— to 
some  quiet  place,  where  they  would  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
prying  eyes  and  slanderous  tongues. 

He  began  to  make  arrangements  for  the  return.  It  was 
only  retarded  by  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Julian,  who 
wrote  to  say  that  she  and  her  husband  were  travelling  in 
that  direction,  and  would  join  her  brother  and  his  wife  upon 
the  morrow. 

Edmund  went  to  the  station.  Julian  exclaimed,  at  the 
sight  of  him, — 

"  Edmund,  how  ill  you  look  ! "  and  was  surprised  and 
abashed  to  find  that  he  did  not  smile  in  reply. 

They  entered  the  open  carriage  that  was  in  waiting; 
and  then  the  young  man  turned  to  his  sister,  and  tried  to 
explain. 

"You  will  find  Alys  very  much  changed,"  he  said  ab- 
ruptly. "  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  But  you  ought  to  be 
prepared." 

"  Prepared  for  what  ?  "  said  Lady  Baynnete,  half  fright- 
ened by  his  melancholy  look. 

u  She  is  ill.  If  I  had  had  time  I  would  have  written.  It 
is  an  illness  of  the  mind  rather  than  of  the  body.  The 
death  of  the  child " 

He  broke  off,  and  said  no  more.  Julian  and  her  hus- 
band exchanged  glances  of  mute  consternation.  Edmund 
was  utterly  unlike  himself.  And  even  yet  they  were  not 
thoroughly  prepared. 

When  Julian  had  paid  her  first  visit  to  Alys,  Lord  Eayn- 
flete  found  her  weeping  in  her  own  room. 

"  Oh  John,"  she  said,  "it  is  terrible." 

"Is  she  so  ill?" 

"She  looks  very  ill.  But  it  is  not  that;  she  is  quite 
placid  and  indifferent,  but  she  seems  like  a  child.  I  am 
afraid  that  her  mind  is  gone." 

"Poor  thing,  she  has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"And  she  has  a  mania,"  said  Julian,  lowering  her  voice. 
"  She  is  always  wanting  to  wash  her  hands— to  get  the  stain 
off,  she  says.     There  must  be  a  reminiscence  of  Lady  Mac- 


TOO  LATE.  327 

beth,  I  suppose;  and  then  Edmund  said  something,  before 
they  were  married,  about  Frank  Moor's  hands  being  stained ; 
and  she  has  never  forgotten  it.  To  see  any  one  so  gentle 
and  innocent  as  Alys  accusing  herself  of  a  crime,  when  it 
was  all  pure  accident,  is  terrible  to  me." 

But  Julian  did  not  express  another  thought  that  was  in 
her  mind.  She  had  always  considered  in  the  old  days,  that 
Alys  had  shown  great  want  of  faith  in  Francis  Moor;  she 
had  put  the  worst  construction  on  his  actions;  and  yet  this 
fate  had  overtaken  her,  that  she  also  should  take  another's 
life,  and  be  pursued  by  remorse  for  what  was,  after  all,  pure 
accident.  Now  she  understood  the  hopeless  look  in  Ed- 
muud's  face. 

"You  have  seen  her,"  the  brother  said  later  in  the  day; 
"  and  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

Julian's  starting  tears  alone  replied. 

"  You  think  there  is  no  chance  ? "  he  said. 

"Edmund,  dear  Edmund,  I  do  not  know;  how  can  I 
tell  ?    What  do  the  doctors  say  ? " 

"  Only  what  I  know  already.  There  is  one  comfort — it 
cannot  last  very  long." 

"Perhaps  that  may  be— best,"  said  Julian,  with  an  ef- 
fort. 

"  Yes,  best— for  her,  Julian ;  the  worst  is— I  can  say  it  to 
yOU_that  I  feel  I  drove  her  to  this  pass." 

"  You,  Edmund  ?  " 

"  I  argued  her  out  of  her  own  judgment.  I  made  her 
think  Frank  Moor  more  guilty  than  he  was.  You  see  how 
what  I  said  sank  into  her  mind.  What  right  had  I  to  say 
that  his  hands  were  stained  with  blood  ?  She  will  never 
let  me  forget  that  phrase  of  mine." 

"  You  thought  so ;  it  was  not  your  fault," 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  think  so,"  said  Edmund,  with  a  bitter 
smile ;  "  I  lied  if  I  said  I  thought  so ;  and  now  my  sin  has 
found  me  out." 

He  had  planned  to  make  the  journey  to  England  as  soon 
as  possible;  but  it  was  evident  to  all  that  Alys  would  not  be 
able  to  go.      She  was  growing  weaker  every  day.     The 


328  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

doctor  at  last  intimated  plainly  that  he  might  as  well  give 
up  his  design.     She  would  never  leave  the  place  alive. 

After  the  decision,  nothing  remained  but  to  stay  quietly, 
and  watch  her  fading  away,  like  a  flower  with  a  broken 
stem.  Edmund  scarcely  ever  left  her.  Julian  tried  to  re- 
lieve his  watch,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from  the 
sick  room  more  .than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  Then  came 
a  transient  gleam  of  hope.  She  seemed  better;  she  had 
more  colour,  and  took  more  interest  in  the  things  around 
her.  For  a  little  while  even  Edmund  hoped  that  things 
were  after  all  not  so  bad  as  they  seemed. 

He  was  sitting  with  her  one  evening,  when  he  observed 
that  she  was  looking  wistfully  at  him,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
speak.  He  leaned  forward  and  re  arranged  the  cushions  at 
her  back.  She  was  not  in  bed,  for  the  weather  was  hot  and 
close,  and  she  had  seemed  more  comfortable  on  a  sofa  near 
the  window.  He  bent  forward  to  kiss  her  very  gently,  when 
he  had  put  the  cushion  right ;  and  to  his  infinite  surprise  and 
poignant  pleasure,  she  lifted  her  face  to  return  his  kiss. 
She  had  not  done  this  for  many  a  long  clay. 

"  I  have  been  ill,  have  I  not  ? "  she  said. 

"Yes,  my  darling,  very  ill." 

"  And  you  have  brought  me  here  to  get  better.  What  a 
pretty  place ! " 

She  spoke  as  if  she  had  never  seen  it  before. 

"  And  what  did  you  do  wTith  baby  when  you  brought  me 
here  ? " 

Had  she  forgotten  all  that  had  happened  ?  Edmund's 
eyes  drooped ;  but  he  answered  steadily,  "  She  is  at 
home." 

"  And  well  ? " 

"Quite  well." 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad.  I  have  had  horrible  dreams.  .  .  .  Ed- 
mund, tell  me  they  were  not  true." 

"No,  darling,  they  were  not  true." 

Her  head  sank  on  his  shoulder.  "I  am  so  glad,"  she 
said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  And  then  she  did  not  speak  for 
some  little  time.     But    presently  she  lifted  up  her  face. 


FAREWELL  TO  QUEST.  329 

"  Edmund,''  she  whispered,  "  was  there  not  a  mark— a  stain 
— upon  my  hand  ? " 

Ob,  that  old  delusion,  how  it  wrung  his  very  heart! 
But  love  gave  him  strength  to  make  a  firm  reply.  "  No, 
dearest,  none." 

"I  thought  not,"  she  answered,  with  a  long  drawn 
breath.  "  There  used  to  be,  you  know ;  but  it  is  all — washed 
— clean. " 

And  she  laid  down  her  weary  head  in  a  slumber,  from 
which  she  never  woke  again. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

FAREWELL  TO  QUEST. 

When  Lady  Adela  bore  off  Lisbeth  in  triumph  to  Moor 
End,  she  had  come  to  the  very  end  of  her  resources.  The 
nurse  had  been  dismissed  rather  too  soon,  as  it  turned  out; 
and  Frank  was  still  in  an  exceedingly  delicate  state  of 
health.  But  Lady  Adela  was  quite  incompetent  to  manage 
him.  He  had  grown  impatient  of  enforced  inaction,  and 
was  resolved  to  exert  himself  as  much  as  possible.  The  con- 
sequence was  that  he  had  brought  on  an  attack  of  fever 
which  he  absolutely  refused  to  nurse,  although  the  doctor 
warned  him  that  the  result  of  neglect  might  be  serious.  He 
was  ill  enough  to  be  very  fractious  and  totally  unmanage- 
able, and  therefore  Lady  Adela  had  flown  to  Lisbeth  for 
assistance. 

But  it  was  curious  to  see  how  Frank's  unreasonableness 
vanished  in  the  charm  of  Lisbeth's  presence.  He  was  sub- 
missive to  her,  when  he  defied  every  one  else;  and  in  half 
an  hour  after  her  arrival,  he  had  gone  peaceably  to  bed,  and 
was  undergoing  all  the  treatment  which  he  had  previously 
scouted.  He  had  taken  a  severe  chill,  and  there  was  danger 
of  pneumonia;  but  Lisbeth  was  an  excellent  nurse.  She 
scolded  him,  to  be  sure,  when  he  did  imprudent  things ;  but 


330  THE  MISTRESS  OP  QUEST. 

she  had  not  to  scold  him  very  often.  He  was  so  delighted 
to  see  her  again  that  he  professed  entire  obedience  to  her 
commands. 

u  How  did  my  mother  get  you  here  ? "  he  said  one  morn- 
ing, as  he  watched  her  sitting  with  her  needlework  at  the 
window,  and  admired  the  beauty  of  her  profile. 

"  How !  by  asking  me  to  come." 

"  But  why  had  you  not  come  before  ? " 

Lisbeth  gave  him  a  glance  of  surprise,  and  coloured,  in 
some  confusion.  She  did  not  like  to  say  to  him  that  she 
had  once  been  asked  to  stop  away. 

"  Were  you  offended  with  us,  Lisbeth  ? " 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Then  why  have  you  avoided  us  ever  since  we  came 
back  to  Moor  End  ? " 

"I  had  a  reason,"  said  Lisbeth,  decisively;  "but  it  is  not 
worth  telling,  and  I  don't  mean  to  tell  it.  So  don't  ask  me 
any  more." 

He  did  not  ask  her,  but  he  grew  very  thoughtful,  as  he 
watched  her  at  her  work. 

Next  he  attacked  his  mother,  when  she  was  alone  with 
him,  and  Lisbeth  had  gone  out  for  a  walk.  Lady  Adela  was 
a  good  deal  subdued  in  his  presence,  for  she  felt  that  she  had 
mismanaged  him,  and  was  disposed  to  be  apologetic. 

"  Mother,  I  have  been  asking  Lisbeth  why  she  did  not 
come  and  see  us  after  she  came  back  to  Quest." 

"I  suppose  she  was  too  busy,"  said  Lady  Adela,  trying 
not  to  look  embarrassed. 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  it.  Perhaps  she  thought  she  was 
not  welcome." 

Lady  Adela  was  not  a  good  dissembler.  She  dropped 
something  with  a  clatter,  and  had  to  search  for  it  a  good 
deal  with  her  half-blind  eyes  before  she  could  find  it  again. 
Meanwhile,  Frank  watched  her  with  an  odd  expression  on 
his  face. 

"  I  suppose,  mother,"  he  said,  when  at  last  peace  was  re- 
stored, "  that  you  never  gave  her  reason  to  suppose  that  we 
did  not  want  her  here  ? " 


FAREWELL  TO  QUEST.  331 

"Well,  really,  Frank,  I  cannot  always  remember  exactly 
what  I  said.  Perhaps  I  did  remark  once  that  I  wanted  to 
see  as  much  of  you  as  possible — wanted  to  keep  you  to  my- 
self, or  something  of  that  sort.  But  I  had  no  idea  that  she 
would  take  offence." 

Frank  asked  no  more  questions,  to  his  mother's  infinite 
relief.  But  the  fact  was  that  he  had  extracted  all  the  in- 
formation he  wanted,  and  meant  to  act  upon  it. 

"  Lisbeth,"  he  said,  when  next  he  had  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  without  being  overheard  by  any  one  else,  "  I  have 
found  out  why  you  would  not  come  to  Moor  End." 
"  Have  you,  Mr.  Frank  ? " 

"  You  always  call  me  '  Mr.  Frank '  when  you  want  to  vex 
me.  But  I  am  not  going  to  take  any  notice.  I  find  that  my 
mother,  in  her  mistaken  solicitude  for  me,  wanted  to  keep 
me  all  to  herself.  She  has  acknowledged  as  much  to  me. 
She  was  very  polite  to  wish  to  cut  me  off  from  all  our  old 
friends.  Remember,  Lisbeth,  that  you  are  to  take  no  notice 
of  what  she  said,  then,  but  to  be  as  friendly  as  you  can." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  wanting  in  friendliness,  am  I  ? "  said 
Lisbeth,  with  a  smile. 

"You  show  a  pretty  good  imitation  of  it,"  said  Frank 
contentedly.     "I  only  hope  it  is  genuine." 

And  then  they  laughed  together;  and  it  seemed  like 
music  in  Lisbeth's  ears  when  she  heard  his  laugh. 

Indeed,  he  was  growing  quite  cheerful ;  and  both  mother 
and  nurse  noted  the  change  in  him  with  joy.  Moreover,  it 
was  quite  evident  that  his  neighbours  were  prepared  to  re- 
ceive him  in  the  friendliest  manner,  and  utterly  to  ignore 
the  past.  It  was  generally  felt  that  he  had  been  treated 
hardly,  and  that  amends  ought  to  be  made  to  him ;  and  the 
county  people  called  in  shoals,  and  welcomed  him  back  to 
the  fells,  with  a  general  air  of  having  understood  that  he 
had  been  on  a  voyage  or  a  hunting  expedition,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind,  and  that  they  were  pleased  at  his  having 
reached  home  safe  and  sound.  In  spite  of  his  occasional 
doubts  and  suspicions,  Frank  found  this  treatment  soothing. 
But  in  the  midst  of  this  cheering  and  remedial  process, 


332  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

came  the  news  of  Alys  Creighton's  illness  and  death.  Not 
till  long  afterwards  did  Frank  hear  the  details  of  those  sad 
latter  days  of  hers;  but  the  fact  of  her  death  was  sufficient 
to  depress  him  and  to  throw  him  back  for  a  considerable 
time.  Even  Lisbeth— herself  full  of  sorrow— could  not 
cheer  him  now ;  and  when  he  was  able  to  do  without  her, 
she  was  allowed  to  go  back  to  Quest,  where  she  occupied 
herself  with  winding  up  her  affairs,  and  arranging  to  sell 
the  farm. 

But  this  operation  took  time,  and  months  passed  before 
it  was  concluded.  She  said  nothing  about  her  plans  to  Lady 
Adela  and  Frank,  although  she  saw  them  with  tolerable  fre- 
quency. In  fact,  she  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  prevent 
her  intentions  from  coming  to  their  ears.  It  was  not  until 
the  following  May  that  Frank  heard  that  the  farm  was  ac- 
tually sold,  and  that  she  was  going  away. 

He  rode  over  to  Quest  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  news,  and 
found  her  in  the  garden,  tying  up  plants  and  otherwise 
making  herself  busy.  The  two  looked  at  each  other  for  a 
moment  or  two  in  the  pleasant  sunshine,  and  thought  that 
the  air  of  Crosthwaite  was  good  for  man  and  woman  alike. 
And,  indeed,  the  thought  was  justifiable,  for  they  were  a 
goodly  pair. 

Frank  had  filled  out  since  his  illness,  and  looked  older 
and  graver  than  his  years.  He  was  tanned  by  sun  and 
wind ;  he  had  also  lost  the  delicate  look  which  had  charac- 
terised him  in  days  of  old,  and  was  the  handsomer  for  its 
loss.  Lisbeth  had  blossomed  out  into  fuller  beauty,  although 
her  face  was  thoughtful,  and  her  eyes  a  little  sad  when  her 
face  was  in  repose.  They  gleamed  brightly  now,  however, 
as  she  looked  up  at  Frank. 

His  words  were  hurried,  and  his  manner  eager,  when  he 
spoke. 

"  Lisbeth,  can  it  be  true  ?  Are  you  going  away  from 
Quest  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  and  her  eyes  fell,  and  the  colour 
came  into  her  cheeks. 

"  Have  you  actually  sold  the  place  ?  " 


FAREWELL  TO  QUEST.  333 

"I  have." 

11  Who  is  the  purchaser,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"LordKaynflete." 

a  Then  I  suppose  you  have  got  a  fair  price.  But  why  did 
you  do  it  without  any  reference  to  us  ?  Do  you  think  it  was 
kind  ?  Did  you  think  we  had  no  regard  for  you,  or  what 
you  meant  to  do  ?  Lisbeth,  you  were  inconsiderate  of  your 
friends." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so,"  she  answered,  pressing  her 
hands  nervously  together.  "  I  only  thought  that  you  would, 
perhaps— in  your  kindness — urge  me  to  stay ;  and  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  monotonous,  how  painful  even,  this  life  at 
Quest  has  become  to  me.  I  am  only  too  glad  to  think  of  leav- 
ing it  behind." 

"  And  pray,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  London,"  said  Lisbeth,  slowly.  "  I  am 
going  to  become  a  hospital  nurse." 

"You!" 

"  Yes ;  why  not  ?  Don't  you  think  I  shall  make  a  good 
one?" 

4'  You  are  a  good  one  already.  Why  should  you  go  and 
waste  your  time  in  drudgery  ? " 

"  If  that  is  drudgery,  I  think  I  like  drudgery.  You  are  a 
man,  you  have  your  mother — and  other  interests — and  you 
do  not  know  how  much  a  woman  feels  her  loneliness.  Here 
at  Quest— with  the  winds  sighing  round  the  house,  and  the 
rain  beating  against  the  window-panes— oh,  you  don't  know 
what  it  is  like  when  one  is  quite  alone." 

"  Poor  Lisbeth  !    And  you  have  never  spoken  of  all  this." 

"  Not  as  long  as  it  had  to  be  borne.  There  is  no  use  in 
complaining  of  the  inevitable.  But  I  have  got  rid  of  Quest 
at  last.     And  yet  I  love  the  place." 

She  looked  round  her  with  a  glance  which  was  full  of 
unutterable  yearning  and  affection.  Every  stick  and  stone 
was  dear  to  her,  although  she  had  resolved  to  leave  them 
all.  The  outlines  of  the  hills  were  stamped  upon  her  very 
soul.  And  Frank  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  who 
understood. 


334  THE  MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  You  will  be  miserable  in  London,  Lisbeth,"  he  said, 
gently.     u  Why  should  you  go  there — of  all  places  ?  " 

"I  must  go  where  there  is  work  to  do.  I  cannot  be 
idle.1' 

"  But  you  might  find  work  here." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do. 
Nobody  wants  me.     In  London  I  can  at  any  rate  be  of  use." 

"How  can  you  say  that  nobody  wants  you  here  ?  You 
know  it  is  untrue." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  she  answered  shortly ; 
and  turned  her  back  to  him  on  the  pretext  of  tying  one  of 
her  plants  to  a  stick.  He  stood  silent,  frowning  and  biting 
hard  at  his  brown  moustache. 

"  Shall  you  never  come  back  ? "  he  asked  in  a  lower  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes.  Lord  Raynnete  is  to  put  in  a  re- 
spectable man  and  woman  who  will  let  me  lodge  here  if  I 
like,  from  time  to  time.  I  shall  be  glad  to  come  back  now 
and  then,  when  I  am  tired." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Frank,  almost  rudely.  "  You 
will  never  come  back,  when  once  you  have  gone  away." 

She  turned  round  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Because,"  he  said,  speaking  between  set  teeth,  as  if 
repressing  some  emotion,  "  you  do  not  care  for  any  of  us. 
You  are  going  away  because  you  do  not  care." 

"  I  do  care,"  she  cried,  darting  a  defiant  glance  at  him. 

"  Then  if  you  care,  why  do  you  not  stay  ?  Lisbeth,  stay 
with  me." 

He  had  said  it  now— said  what  had  been  in  his  heart  for 
many  a  long  day,  but  which  he  had  never  dreamed  of  utter- 
ing to  her.  She  heard  it,  and  turned  pale.  Indeed,  she  stag- 
gered as  if  she  had  received  a  blow.  Once  she  had  dreamt 
of  his  love  indeed ;  but  that  was  so  very  long  ago. 

"  Lisbeth,  will  you  not  answer  me  ?  I  have  told  you  the 
truth  now.  I  love  you,  as  I  never  loved  any  woman — not 
even  Alys — as  I  love  you.  I  said  once  that  I  would  never 
ask  any  woman  to  be  my  wife,  but  I  take  back  the  word.  I 
ask  you — you,  Lisbeth,  dearest  and  best  of  women,  to  be  my 
wife." 


FAREWELL  TO  QUEST.  335 

"  I  have  beard,"  said  Lisbeth,  falteringly,  "  that  you  cared 
for  another — that  there  was  a  Miss  Harrington." 

"  It's  a  lie.     I  never  thought  of  Miss  Harrington." 

"  And  then  there  is  Alys.     She  is  dead,  but " 

"  I  do  not  forget  her.  I  loved  her— yes ;  but  I  love  you, 
Lisbeth,  better." 

"  Lady  Adela " 

"Never  mind  Lady  Adela.  The  question  lies  between 
you  and  me.  Everything  else  can  settle  itself  afterwards. 
Lisbeth,  can  you  tell  me  that  you  do  not  care  for  me  at  all  ? " 

"  N — no,"  she  said,  faintly;  "  I  cannot  quite  say  that." 

"  Say  the  truth,  then.     You  love  me  ?  " 

"A  little." 

"  How  little  ?  How  much  ?  Lisbeth,  will  you  be  my 
wife  ? " 

She  blushed  more  deeply  than  he  had  ever  seen  her 
blush  before;  then,  without  answering,  she  walked  slowly 
towards  the  house.  Probably  she  did  not  quite  know  what 
she  was  doing;  but  she  sought  the  house  with  an  instinctive 
desire  for  shelter.  He  followed  her,  doubtingly,  hesitat- 
ingly, until  she  faced  him  in  the  little  parlour  where  they 
had  so  often  met  before.  Then,  seeing  something  in  her 
face  that  gave  him  courage,  he  simply  took  her  in  his  arms, 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

There  was  no  talk  after  this  of  her  going  to  London  to 
become  a  hospital  nurse.  Frank  would  not  hear  a  word  of 
it.  And  in  his  new  triumph,  he  had  become  so  masterful, 
so  dictatorial,  that  Lisbeth  hardly  knew  him,  and  abdicated 
her  old  habits  of  command,  unconditionally.  It  was  some- 
thing new  to  her  even  to  make  a  pretence  of  obeying. 

"  And  now  tell  me  the  truth,"  he  said  to  her,  solemnly 
enough,  "  how  long  is  it  since  you  learned  to  care  for  me  a 
little  bit?" 

She  blushed  hotly.  But  Frank  received  an  answer  which 
he  did  not  expect.     "  All  my  life,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"  All  your  life ! — yes,  as  a  sister ;  but  with  this  kind  of 
love?" 

u  Ever  since  I  knew  what  love  meant." 


336  THE   MISTRESS  OF  QUEST. 

"  What,  when  you  refused  me  and  scolded  me  ? " 
"It  was  because  I  loved  you  all  the  time." 
Frank  was  silent.  His  mind  flew  back  over  the  inteven- 
ing  spaces,  and  he  thought  of  the  days  when  he  had  neg- 
lected Lisbeth  for  her  sister's  sake,  and  of  all  the  pain  that 
she  must  silently  have  endured.  His  heart  smote  him  as  he 
stooped  to  kiss  her  lips  again. 

"  What  a  blind  bat  I  have  been !  Forgive  me,  Lisbeth,  I 
will  try  to  atone  for  all  I  have  given  you  to  bear.  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  put  up  with  me,  nor  how  I  found  cour- 
age to  tell  you  of  my  love.  But  since  you  know  it,  since 
you  love  me  a  little,  I  must  hope  that  you  will  put  up  with 
all  that  is  wanting  in  me,  all  that  is  amiss— weakness,  folly, 

poverty,  loss  of  my  good  name " 

"  Nay,  Frank,  you  have  won  that  back  already." 
"  You  will  help  me,  Lisbeth,"  he  said  gravely,  "to  win  it 
back." 

There  was  no  opposition.  Lady  Adela  declared  herself 
delighted.  The  county  people  waxed  enthusiastic  over  the 
marriage,  which  they  declared  to  be  so  delightfully  roman- 
tic, and°deluged  Lisbeth  with  presents.  More  than  this,  they 
called  upon  her  afterwards,  and  said  that  it  was  no  wonder 
Frank  Moor  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  She  soon  won  for 
herself  the  reputation  of  being  the  handsomest  woman  of 
the  country-side. 

But  a  reputation  for  beauty  mattered  very  little  to  Lis- 
beth, when  she  had  a  husband  to  love,  and,  in  later  years, 
children  of  her  own  to  tend.  They  occupied  her  thoughts, 
and  she  cared  little  for  that  outer  world  of  which  Julian 
told  her  from  time  to  time.  Her  husband,  her  boys  and 
girls  were  all  the  world  to  the  quondam  mistress  of  Quest. 


THE  END. 


JVPPLETONS'   TOWN   AND   COUNTRY   LIBRARY. 

PUBLISHED  SEMIMONTHLY. 


1.  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louis  Ulbach. 

2.  Eve.    A  Novel.    By  S.  Baring-Gould. 

3   For  Fifteen  Years.    A  Sequel  to  The  Steel  Hammer.    By  Louis  Ulbach. 
i.  A  Counsel  of  Perfection.    A  Novel.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

5.  The  Deemster.    A  Romance.    By  Hall  Caine. 

6.  A  Virginia  Inheritance.    By  Edmund  Pendleton. 

7.  Ninette :  An  Idyll  of  Provence.    By  the  author  of  Vera. 

8    "The  Right  Honourable:'   By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell-Praee. 
9.  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

10.  Mrs.  Lorimer:  A  Study  in  Black  and  White.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

11.  The  Elect  Lady.    By  George  MacDonald. 

12.  The  Mystery  of  the  "  Ocean  Star."    By  W.  Clark  Russell. 
IS    A7%stocvcicv     A  Novel. 

14!  A  Recoiling  Vengeance.    By  Frank  Barrett.    With  Illustrations. 

15.  The  Secret  of  Fontaine-la- Croix.    By  Margaret  Field. 

16.  The  Master  of  Rathkelly.    By  Hawley  Smart. 

17.  Donovan:  A  Modern  Englishman.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

18.  This  Mortal  Coil.    By  Grant  Allen. 

19.  A  Fair  Emigrant.    By  Rosa  Mulholland. 

20.  The  Apostate.    By  Ernest  Daudet. 

21   Raleigh  Westgate  ;  or,  Epimenides  in  Maine.    By  Helen  Kendrick  Johnson. 

22.  Arius  the  Libyan :  A  Romance  of  the  Primitive  Church. 

23.  Constance,  and  Calbofs  Rival.    By  Julian  Hawthorne. 

24.  We  Two.    Bv  Edna  Lyall. 

25.  A  Dreamer  of  Dreams.    By  the  author  of  Thoth. 

26.  The  Ladies'  Gallery.    By  Justin  McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

27.  The  Reproach  of  Annesley.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

28.  Near  to  Happiness. 

29.  In  the  Wire-  Grass.    By  Louis  Pendleton. 
.30.  Lace.    A  Berlin  Romance.    By  Paul  Lindau. 

31.  American  Coin.    A  Novel.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 

32.  Won  by  Waiting.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

33.  The  Story  of  Helen  Davenant.    By  Violet  Fane. 

34.  The  Light  of  Her  Countenance.    By  H.  H.  Boyesen. 

35.  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope.    By  M.  E.  Le  Clerc. 

36.  The  Knight-Errant.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

37.  In  the  Golden  Days.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

38.  Giraldi  ;  or,  The  Curse  of  Love.    By  Ross  George  Dereng. 

39.  A  Hardy  Norseman.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

40.  The  Romance  of  Jenny  Harlowe,  and  Sketches  of  Maritime  Life.     By  W„ 

Clark  Russell. 

41.  Passion's  Slave.    By  Richard  Ashe-King. 

42.  The  Awakening  of  Mary  Fenwick.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

43.  Countess  Loreley.    Translated  from  the  German  of  Rudolf  Menger. 

44.  Blind  Love.    By  Wilkie  Collins. 

45.  The  Dean's  Daughter.    By  Sophie  F.  F.  Veitch. 

46.  Countess  Irene.    A  Romance  of  Austrian  Life.    By  J.  Fogerty. 

47.  Robert  Browning's  Principal  Shorter  Poems. 

48.  Frozen  Hearts.    By  G.  Webb  Appleton. 

49.  Djambek  the  Georgian.    By  A.  G.  von  Suttner. 

50.  The  Craze  qf  Christian  Enqelhart.    By  Henry  Faulkner  Darnell. 

51.  Lai.    By  William  A.  Hammond,  M.  D. 

52.  Aline,    A  Novel.    By  Henry  Greville. 

53.  Joost  Avelingh.    A  Dutch  Story.    By  Maarten  Maartens. 
%4.  Katy  of  Catoctin.    By  George  Alfred  Townsend. 

55.  Throckmorton.    A  Novel.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 
56   Expatriation.    By  the  author  of  Aristocracy. 
57.  Geoffrey  Hampstead.    By  T.  S.  Jarvis. 


APPLETONS1  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY.— (Continued.) 


58.  Dmitri.    A  Romance  of  Old  Russia.    By  F.  W.  Bain,  M.  A. 

59.  Part  of  the  Property.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

60.  Bismarck  in  Private  Life.    By  a  Fellow-Student. 

61.  In  Low  Relief.    By  Mobley  Roberts. 

62.  The  Canadians  of  Old.    A  Historical  Romance.    By  Philippe  Gaspe. 

63.  A  Squire  of  Low  Degree.    By  Lily  A.  Long. 

64.  A  Fluttered  Dovecote.    By  George  Manville  Fenn. 

65.  The  Nugents  of  Carriconna.    An  Irish  Story.    By  Tighe  Hopkins. 

66.  A  Sensitive  Plant.    By  E.  and  D.  Gerard. 

67.  Dona  Luz.    By  Juan  Valera.    Translated  by  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Serrano. 

68.  Pepita  Ximenez.    By  Juan  Valera.    Translated  by  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Serrano. 

69.  The  PHmes  and  their  Neighboi^s.    By  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston. 

70.  The  Iron  Game.    By  Henry  F.  Keenan. 

71.  Stories  of  Old  New  Spain.    By  Thomas  A.  Janyier. 

72.  The  Maid  of  Honor.    By  Hon.  Lewis  Wingfield. 

73.  In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

74.  Consequences.    By  Egerton  Castle. 

75.  The  Three  Miss  Kings.    By  Ada  Cambridge. 

76.  A  Matter  of  Skill.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

77.  Maid  Marian,  and  other  Stones.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

78.  One  Wmnan's  Way.    By  Edmund  Pendleton. 

79.  A  Merciful  Divorce.    By  F.  W.  Maude. 

80.  Stephen  Ellicott's  Daughter.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

81.  One  Reason  Why.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

82.  The  Tragedy  of  Ida  Noble.    By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

83.  The  Johnstown  Stage,  and  other  Stories.    By  Robebt  H.  Fletcher. 

84.  A  Widower  Indeed.    By  Rhoda  Broughton  and  Elizabeth  Bisland. 

85.  The  Flight  of  the  Shadow.    By  Geobge  MacDonald. 

86.  Love  or  Money.    By  Kathabine  Lee. 

87.  Not  All  in  Vain.    By  Ada  Cambbidge. 

88.  It  Happened  Yesterday.    By  Fbederick  Marshall. 

89.  My  Guardian.    By  Ada  Cambbidge. 

90.  The  Story  of  Philip  Methuen.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

91.  Amethyst:  The  Story  of  a  Beauty.    By  Chbistabel  R.  Colebidge. 

92.  Don  Braulio.    By  Juan  Valeba.    Translated  by  Clara  Bell. 

93.  The  Chronicles  of  Mr.  Bill  Williams.    By  Richard  Malcolm  Johnston. 

94.  A  Queen  of  Curds  and  Cream.    By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

95.  "  La  Bella  "  and  Others.    By  Egerton  Castle. 

96.  u  December  Roses."     By  Mrs.  Campbell-Pbaed. 

97.  Jean  de  Kerdren.    By  Jeanne  Schultz. 

98.  Etelka's  Vow.    By  Dobothea  Gebabd. 

99.  C?vss  Currents.    By  Maby  A.  Dickens. 

100.  His  Life's  Magnet.    By  Theodoka  Elmslie. 

101.  Passing  the  Love  of  Women.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

102.  In  Old  St.  Stephen's.     By  Jeanie  Dbake. 

103.  The  Berkelei/s  and  their  Neighbors.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

104.  Mona  Maclean,  Medical  Student.    By  Gbaham  Tbavebs. 

105.  Mrs.  Bligh.    By  Rhoda  Bboughton. 

106.  A  Stumble  on  the  Threshold.    By  James  Payn. 

107.  Hanging  Moss.    By  Paul  Lindau. 

108.  A  Comedy  of  Elopement.    By  Chbistian  Reid. 

109.  In  the  Suntime  of  her  Youth.    By  Beatbice  Whitby. 

110.  Stories  in  Black  and  White.    By  Thomas  Habdy  and  Others. 
110J.  An  Englishman  in  Paris.    Notes  and  Recollections. 

111.  Commander  Mendoza.    By  Juan  Valeba. 

112.  Dr.  Fault's  Theory.    By  Mrs.  A.  M.  Diehl. 

113.  Children  of  Destiny.    By  Molly  Elliot  Seawell. 

114.  A  Little  Minx.    By  Ada  Cambbidge. 

115.  Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon.    By  Hall  Caine. 

116.  The  Voice  of  a  Flower.    By  E.  Gebabd. 

117.  Singularly  Deluded.    By  Sabah  Gband. 

118.  Suspected.    By  Louisa  Steatenus. 

119.  Lucia,  Hugh,  and  Another.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

120.  The  Tutor's  Secret.    By  Victob  Cheebuliez. 


APPLETONS1  TOWN  AND  COUNTHY  LIBRARY.— ( Continued.) 

121.  From  the  Five  Elvers.    By  Mrs.  F.  A.  Steel. 

122.  An  Innocent  Impostor,  and  Other  Stories.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

123.  Ideala.    By  Sarah  Grand. 

124.  A  Comedy  of  Masks.    By  Ernest  Dowson  and  Arthur  Moore. 

125.  Relics.    By  Frances  MacNab. 

128.  Dodo :  A  Detail  of  the  Day.    By  E.  F.  Benson. 

127.  A  Woman  of  Forty.    By  Esme  Stuart. 

128.  Diana  Tempest.    By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

129.  The  Recipe  for  Diamonds.    By  C.  J.  Cutcliffe  Hyne. 

130.  Christina  Chard.    By  Mrs.  Camfbell-Praed. 

131.  A  Gray  Eye  or  So.    By  Frank  Frankfort  Moore. 

132.  Earlscourt.    By  Alexander  Allardyce. 

133.  A  Marriage  Ceremony.    By  Ada  Cambridge. 

134.  A  Ward  in  Chancery.    By  Mrs.  Alexander 

135.  Lot  13.    By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

136.  Our  Manifold  Nature.    By  Sarah  Grand. 

137.  A  Costly  Freak.    By  Maxwell  Gray. 

138.  A  Beginner.    By  Rhoda  Broughton. 

139.  A  Yellow  Aster.    By  Mrs.  Mannington  Caffyn  ("  Iota"). 

140.  The  Rubicon.    By  E.  F.  Benson. 

141.  The  Trespasser.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

142.  The  Rich  Miss  Riddell.     By  Dorothea  Gekard. 

143.  Mary  Fenwick's  Daughter.    By  Beatrice  Whitby. 

144.  Red  Diamonds.    By  Justin  McCarthy. 

145.  A  Daughter  of  Music.    By  G.  Colmore. 

146.  Outlaw  and  Lawmaker.     By  Mrs.  Campbell-Praed. 

147.  Dr.  Janet  of  Harley  Street.    By  Arabella  Kenealy. 

148.  George  Mandeville's  Husband.    By  C.  E.  Raimond. 

149.  Vashti  and  Esther. 

150.  Timor's  Two  Worlds.    By  M.  Jokai. 

151.  A  Victim  of  Good  Luck.    By  W.  E.  Norris. 

152.  The  Trail  of  the  Sword.    Bv  Gilbert  Parker. 

153.  A  Mild  Barbarian.    By  Edgar  Fawcett. 

154.  The  God  in  the  Car.    By  Anthony  Hope. 

155.  Children  of  Circumstance.    By  Mrs.  M.  Caffyn  ("  Iota11). 

156.  At  the  Gate  of  Samaria.     By  William  J.  Locke. 

157.  The  Justification  of  Andrew  Lebrun.    By  Frank  Barrett. 

158.  Dust  and  Laurels.    By  Mary  L.  Pendered. 

159.  The  Good  Ship  Mohock.    By  W.  Clark  Russell. 

160.  Noemi.    By  S.  Baring-Gould. 

161.  The  Honour  of  SaveMi.     By  S.  Levett  Yeats. 

162.  Kitty's  Engagement.    By  Florence  Warden. 

163.  The  Mermaid.    By  L.  Dougall. 

164.  An  Arranged  Marriage.    By  Dorothea  Gerard. 

165.  Eve's  Ransom.    By  George  Gissing. 

166.  The  Marriage  of  Esther.    By  Guy  Boothby. 

167.  Fidelis.    By  Ada  Cambridge. 

168.  Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges.    By  F.  F.  Montresor. 
"  nsittart.    By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Needell. 

George  Paston. 


169.  The  Vengeance  of  James  Vansittart. 

170.  A  Study  in  Prejudices.    By  Georgi 


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Z7  FE'S  RANSOM.     A  Novel.     By  George  Gissing, 
J—-*    author  of  "  Denzil  Quarrier,"  "  The  Odd  Women/'  "  New  Grub 
Street/'  etc.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"Powerful  it  undoubtedly  is,  and  it  exercises  a  glowing  fascination  on  the  reader." 
— Boston  Traveller. 

"  The  public  appears  ready  to  receive  in  the  same  library  parcel  Rudyard  Kipling's 
jungle  epic,  Mr.  Crockett,  Mr.  Weyman,  and  Mr.  George  Gissing."— Loudon  Academy. 


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HE    MERMAID.      By    L.    Dougall,    author    of 
Beggars  all,"  "What  Necessity  Knows,"  etc.     i2mo.     Paper, 
50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  'The  Mermaid'  is  a  novel  so  far  out  of  the  ordinary  run  of  fiction,  and  so  thor- 
oughly artistic  in  every  line,  that  it  is  sure  to  find  a  hearty  welcome."— Boston  Beacon. 

"  Fascinating  almost  to  a  hypnotic  point."— Boston  Traveller. 

"  One  of  the  most  deeply  interesting  and  novel  stories  that  has  recently  been  put 
before  the  public.  .  .  .  When  one  begins  it  he  does  not  wish  to  put  it  down  until  it  is 
finished."—  New  Haven  Leader. 

rHE   HONOUR   OF  SAVELLI.      By  S.  Levett 
Yeats.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Unsurpassably  written,  full  of  matter  of  historical  interest,  and  in  excellences  of 
composition,  clearness  of  description,  and  delineation  of  character,  is  assuredly  one  of 
the  first  in  the  field."—  Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

"  The  story  is  fit  to  rank  with  Mr.  Weyman's  or  Mr.  Doyle's,  and  the  more  suc- 
cessors its  author  gives  it  the  better."— Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazetie. 

OEMI.      By  S.  Baring-Gould,  author  of  "Eve," 
"  Red  Spider,"  "  Little  Tu'penny,"  etc.    l2mo.    Paper,  50  cents  ; 
cloth,  $1.00. 
"  The  plot  is  well  developed,  the  incidents  are  exciting,  the  dialogue  bright  and 
sparkling;  in  short,  the  author  has  never  done  better  work."— Boston  Advertiser. 

"A  romantic  novel  of  old  France,  full  of  life  and  fire— one  that  makes  the  blood  tin- 
gle.    It  is  far  away  and  beyond  anything  he  has  previously  done."— A7.   Y.  World. 


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NOVELS   BY   HALL  CAINE. 
y^HE    MANXMAN.      By  Hall   Caine.       i2mo. 

-*       Cloth,  $1.50. 

"A  story  of  marvelous  dramatic  intensity,  and  in  its  ethical  meaning  has  a  force 
comparable  only  to  Hawthorne's  '  Scarlet  Letter.'  " — Boston  Beacon. 

"  A  work  of  power  which  is  another  stone  added  to  the  foundation  of  enduring  fame 
to  which  Mr.  Caine  is  yearly  adding."— Public  Opinion. 

"A  wonderfully  strong  study  of  character;  a  powerful  analysis  of  those  elements 
which  go  to  make  up  the  strength  and  weakness  of  a  man,  which  are  at  fierce  warfare 
within  the  same  breast  :  contending  against  each  other,  as  it  were,  the  one  to  raise  him 
to  fame  and  power,  the  other  to  drag  him  down  to  degradation  and  shame.  Never  in 
the  whole  range  of  literature  have  we  seen  the  struggle  between  these  forces  for 
supremacy  over  the  man  more  powerfully,  more  realistically  delineated,  than  Mr.  Caine 
pictures  it." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  '  The  Manxman '  is  one  of  the  most  notable  novels  of  the  year,  and  is  unquestion- 
ably destined  to  perpetuate  the  fame  of  Hall  Caine  for  many  a  year  to  come." — Phila- 
delphia Telegra'  h. 

"  The  author  exhibits  a  mastery  of  the  elemental  passions  of  life  that  places  him 
high  among  the  foremost  of  present  writers  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


n^HE    DEEMSTER.       A   Roi?iance  of  the  Isle  of 
•*■       Man.     By  Hall  Caine.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Hall  Caine  has  already  given  us  some  very  strong  and  fine  work,  and  '  The 
Deemster'  is  a  story  of  unusual  power.  .  .  .  Certain  passages  and  chapters  have  an 
intensely  dramatic  grasp,  and  hold  the  fascinated  reader  with  a  force  rarely  excited 
nowadays  in  literature." — The  Critic. 

"  One  of  the  strongest  novels  which  has  appeared  for  many  a  day." — San  Fran- 
cisco Chronicle. 

"  Fascinates  the  mind  like  the  gathering  and  bursting  of  a  storm." — Illustrated 
London  News. 

"Deserves  to  be  ranked  among  the  remarkable  novels  of  the  day. — "Chicago 
Times. 

"  Remarkably  powerful,  and  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  strongest  works  of  fiction  of 
our  time.     Its  conception  and  execution  are  both  very  fine." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


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APT'N  DAVY'S    HONEYMOON.       A   Manx 
Yarn.     By  Hall  Caine.     i2mo.     Paper,  50  cts. ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"A  new  departure  by  this  author.  Unlike  his  previous  works,  this  little  tale  is 
almost  wholly  humorous,  with,  however,  a  current  of  pathos  underneath.  It  is  not 
always  that  an  author  can  succeed  equally  well  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy,  but  it  looks 
as  though  Mr.  Hall  Caine  would  be  one  of  the  exceptions." — London  Literary 
World. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  the  author  of  '  The  Deemster'  in  a  brightly  humorous  little 
story  like  this.  ...  It  shows  the  same  observation  of  Manx  character,  and  much  of 
the  same  artistic  skill." — Philadelphia  Times. 


New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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NOVELS  BY  MAARTEN  MAARTENS. 

HE  GREATER  GLORY.  A  Story  of  High  Life. 
By  Maarten  Maartens,  author  of  "  God's  Fool,**  "  Joost 
Avelingh,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50.  , 

"  Until  the  Appletons  discovered  the  merits  of  Maarten  Maartens,  the  foremost  of 
Dutch  novelists,  it  is  doubtful  if  many  American  readers  knew  that  there  were  Duich. 
novelists.  His  '  God's  Fool'  and  'Joost  Avelingh'  made  for  him  an  American  reputa- 
tion. To  our  mind  this  just  published  work  of  his  is  his  best.  .  .  .  He  is  a  master  of 
epigram,  an  artist  in  description,  a  prophet  in  insight." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  It  would  take  several  columns  to  give  any  adequate  idea  of  the  superb  way  in 
which  the  Dutch  novelist  has  developed  his  theme  and  wrought  out  one  of  the  most 
impressive  stories  of  the  period.  ...  It  belongs  to  the  small  class  of  novels  which 
one  can  not  afford  to  neglect." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  stands  head  and  shoulders  above  the  average  novelist  of  the 
day  in  intellectual  subtlety  and  imaginative  power."—  Boston  Beacon. 

/^OD'S  FOOL.     By  Maarten    Maartens.      i2mo. 

L^     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Throughout  there  is  an  epigrammatic  force  which  would  make  palatable  a  less 
interesting  story  of  human  lives  or  one  less  deftly  told."— London  Saturday  Review. 

"  Perfectly  easy,  graceful,  humorous.  .  .  .  The  author's  skill  in  character-drawing 
is  undeniable." — London  Chronicle. 

"  A  remarkable  work." — New  York  Times. 

"Maarten  Maartens  has  secured  a  firm  footing  in  the  eddies  of  current  literature. 
.  .  .  Pathos  deepens  into  tragedy  in  the  thrilling  story  of '  God's  Fool.'" — Philadel- 
phia Ledger. 

"  Its  preface  alone  stamps  the  author  as  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists  of 
to-day." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  brilliant.  .  .  .  The  interest  never  lags;  the  style  is 
realistic  and  intense ;  and  there  is  a  constantly  underlying  current  of  subtle  humor. 
...  It  is,  in  short,  a  book  which  no  student  of  modern  literature  should  fail  to  read." 
— Boston  Times. 

"A  story  of  remarkable  interest  and  point."— New  York  Observer. 


7 


VOST  AVELINGH.      By  Maarten    Maartens. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"So  unmistakably  good  as  to  induce  the  hope  that  an  acquaintance  with  the  Dutch 
literature  of  fiction  may  soon  become  more  general  among  us." — London  Morning 
Post. 

"  In  scarcely  any  of  the  sensational  novels  of  the  day  will  the  reader  find  more 
nature  or  more  human  nature." — London  Standard. 

"A  novel  of  a  very  high  type.  At  once  strongly  realistic  and  powerfully  ideal- 
istic."— London  Literary  World. 

"  Full  of  local  color  and  rich  in  quaint  phraseology  and  suggestion." — London 
Telegraph. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  is  a  capital  story-teller."— Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"Our  English  writers  of  fiction  will  have  to  look  to  their  laurels."— Birmingham 
Daily  Post. 

New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO-  72  Fifth  Avenue* 


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ANY  INVENTIONS.  By  Rudyard  Kiplinc*. 
Containing  fourteen  stories,  several  of  which  are  now  pub- 
lished for  the  first  time,  and  two  poems.  i2mo,  42)  pages. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  reader  turns  from  its  pages  with  the  conviction  that  the  author  has  no  supe« 
ior  to-day  in  animated  narrative  and  virility  of  style.  He  remains  master  of  a  powei 
n  which  none  of  his  contemporaries  approach  him— the  ability  to  select  out  of  countless 
details  the  few  vital  ones  which  create  the  finished  picture.  He  knows  how,  with  a 
phrase  or  a  word,  to  make  you  see  his  characters  as  he  sees  them,  to  make  you  feci 
the  full  meaning  of  a  dramatic  situation."—  New  York  Tribune. 

"'Many  Inventions'  will  confirm  Mr.  Kipling's  reputation.  .  .  .  We  would  cite 
with  pleasure  sentences  from  almost  every  page,  and  extract  incidents  from  almost 
every  story.  But  to  what  end?  Here  is  the  completest  book  that  Mr.  Kipling  has  yet 
given  us  in  workmanship,  the  weightiest  and  most  humane  in  breadth  of  view."— 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  powers  as  a  story-teller  are  evidently  not  diminishing.  We  advise 
everybody  to  buy  •  Many  Inventions,'  and  to  profit  by  some  of  the  best  entertainment 
that  modern  fiction  has  to  offer." — New  York  Sun. 

"  '  Many  Inventions  '  will  be  welcomed  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 
.  .  .  Every  one  of  the  stories  bears  the  imprint  of  a  master  who  conjures  up  incident 
as  if  by  magic,  and  who  portrays  character,  scenery,  and  feeling  with  an  ease  which  is 
only  exceeded  by  the  boldness  of  force." — Boston  Globe. 

"The  book  will  get  and  hold  the  closest  attention  of  the  reader." — American 
Bookseller. 

"  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling's  place  in  the  world  of  letters  is  unique.  He  sits  quite  aloof 
and  alone,  the  incomparable  and  inimitable  master  of  the  exquisitely  fine  art  of  short- 
story  writing.  Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  has  perhaps  written  several  tales  which 
match  the  run  of  Mr.  Kipling's  work,  but  the  best  of  Mr.  Kipling's  tales  are  matchless, 
and  his  latest  collection,  'Many  Inventions,'  contains  several  such." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"Of  late  essays  in  fiction  the  work  of  Kipling  can  be  compared  toonly  three — 
Blackmore's  '  Lorna  Doone,'  Stevenson's  marvelous  sketch  of  Villon  in  the  'New 
Arabian  Nights,'  and  Thomas  Hardy's  '  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles.'  ...  It  is  probably 
owing  to  this  extreme  care  that  '  Many  Inventions  '  is  undoubtedly  Mr.  Kipling's  best 
book." — Chicago  Post. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  style  is  too  well  known  to  American  readers  to  require  introduction, 
but  it  can  scarcely  be  amiss  to  say  there  is  not  a  story  in  this  collection  that  does  not 
more  than  repay  a  perusal  of  them  all." — Baltimore  American. 

"  As  a  writer  of  short  stories  Rudyard  Kipling  is  a  genius.  He  has  had  imitators, 
but  they  have  not  been  successful  in  dimming  the  luster  of  his  achievements  by  con- 
trast. .  .  .  'Many  Inventions'  is  the  title.  And  they  are  inventions— entirely  origi- 
nal in  incident,  ingenious  in  plot,  and  startling  by  their  boldness  and  force." — Rochester 
Herald. 

"How  clever  he  is!  This  must  always  be  the  first  thought  on  reading  such  a 
collection  of  Kipling's  stories.  Here  is  art— art  of  the  most  consummate  sort.  Com- 
pared with  this,  the  stories  of  our  brightest  young  writers  become  commonplace."— 
New  York  Evangelist. 

"  Taking  the  group  as  a  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  the  execution  is  up  to  his  best 
in  the  past,  while  two  or  three  sketches  surpass  in  rounded  strength  and  vividness  ol 
imagination  anything  else  he  has  done." — Hartford  Courant. 

"Fifteen  more  extraordinary  sketches,  without  a  tinge  of  sensationalism,  it  would 
be  hard  to  find.  .  .  .  Every  one  has  an  individuality  of  its  own  which  fascinates  tb;> 
reader." — Boston  Times. 


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H^HE  STORY  OF  SONNY  SAHIB.     Illustrated. 

•*■       i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

This  little  romance  of  youthful  heroism  will  fascinate  older  and  younger  readers 
alike.     It  is  a  story  of  the  Indian  Mutiny  and  the  years  which  immediately  followed. 

TZERNON'S    AUNT.      With    many   Illustrations. 
*         i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  One  of  the  best  and  brightest  stories  of  the  period."— Chicago  Evening  Post. 
"  A  most  vivid  and  realistic  impression  of  certain  phases  of  life  in  India,  and  no  one 
can  read  her  vivacious  chronicle  without  indulging  in  many  a  hearty  laugh."— Boston 
Beacon. 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  TO-DAY.  A  Novel.  i2mo. 
-**    Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  This  novel  is  a  strong  and  serious  piece  of  work  ;  one  of  a  kind  that  is  getting  too 
rare  in  ^hese  days  of  universal  crankiness." — Boston  Courier. 

"  A  lew  and  capital  story,  full  of  quiet,  happy  touches  of  humor."— Philadelphia 
Press. 

/}  SOCIAL  DEPARTURE:  How  Orihodocia  and  I 
-**•     Went  Round  the   World  by  Ourselves.     With  in  Illustrations 
by  F.  H.  Townsend.     i2mo.     Paper,  75  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.75. 

"  It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  another  book  can  be  found  so  thoroughly  amusing 
from  beginning  to  end."— Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  A  brighter,  merrier,  more  entirely  charming  book  would  be,  indeed,  difficult  to 
find." — St.  Louis  Republic. 


N  AMERICAN  GIRL  IN  LONDON.     With  80 
Illustrations  by  F.  H.   Townsend.     i2mo.     Paper,  75    cents  ; 
cloth,  $1.50. 
"So  sprightly  a  book  as  this,  on  life  in  London  as  observed  by  an  American,  has 
never  before  been  written."—  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

HE  SIMPLE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  MEM- 
SAHIB.  With  37  Illustrations  by  F.  H.  Townsend.  i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  like  traveling  without  leaving  one's  armchair  to  read  it.  Miss  Duncan  has 
the  descriptive  and  narrative  gift  in  large  measure,  and  she  brings  vividly  before  us 
the  street  scenes,  the  interiors,  the  bewilderingly  queer  natives,  the  gayeties  ot  the 
English  colony."— Philadelphia  Telegraph. 


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D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

Ti/TEMOIRS  ILLUSTRATING  THE  HISTORY 

IVl  OF  NAPOLEON  I,  from  1802  to  1815.  By  Baron  Claude- 
Fran^ois  de  Meneval,  Private  Secretary  to  Napoleon.  Ed- 
ited by  his  Grandson,  Baron  Napoleon  Joseph  de  Meneval. 
With  Portraits  and  Autograph  Letters.  In  three  volumes. 
8vo.     Cloth,  $6.00. 

These  volumes  furnish  a  picture  of  Napoleon's  daily  life  which  is  believed 
to  be  unexcelled  in  point  of  closeness  of  observation  and  graphic  detail  by 
any  other  narrative.  That  Meneval  was  not  the  man  to  neglect  his  oppor- 
tunities is  shown  abundantly  by  the  glimpses  of  character  revealed  in  his 
diaries  and  notes.  Yet,  for  personal  and  other  reasons,  his  invaluable  recol- 
lections were  not  given  to  the  world.  They  have  been  treasured  by  his 
family  until  the  present  time  of  profound  interest  in  Napoleonic  history. 
Of  Napoleon's  relations  with  Josephine  and  Marie  Louise — of  all  the  features 
of  his  domestic  and  social  existence — Meneval  had  abundant  knowledge,  for 
he  shared  Napoleon's  private  life ;  and  since  he  was  sitting  at  the  fountain- 
head  of  information,  he  is  able  to  shed  new  light  on  many  features  of  the 
Napoleonic  campaigns.  His  narrative  is  most  interesting ;  its  historical 
importance  need  not  be  emphasized. 

"The  Baron  de  Meneval  knew  Napoleon  as  few  knew  him.  He  was  his  confiden- 
tial secretary  and  intimate  friend.  .  .  .  Students  and  historians  who  wish  to  form  a 
trustworthy  estimate  of  Napoleon  can  not  afford  to  neglect  this  testimony  by  one  of  his 
most  intimate  associates." — London  JVezvs. 

"  These  memoirs,  by  the  private  secretary  of  Napoleon,  are  a  valuable  and  impor- 
tant contribution  to  the  history  of  the  Napoleonic  period,  and  necessarily  they  throw 
new  and  interesting  light  on  the  personality  and  real  sentiments  of  the  emperor.  If 
Napoleon  anywhere  took  off  the  mask,  it  was  in  the  seclusion  of  his  private  cabinet. 
The  memoirs  have  been  republished  almost  as  they  were  written,  by  Baron  de  Meneval's 
grandson,  with  the  addition  of  some  supplementary  documents." — London  Times. 

"  Meneval  has  brought  the  living  Napoleon  clearly  before  us  in  a  portrait,  flattering, 
no  doubt,  but  essentially  true  to  nature ;  and  he  has  shown  us  what  the  emperor  really 
was— at  the  head  of  his  armies,  in  his  Council  of  State,  as  the  ruler  of  France,  as  the  lord 
of  the  continent — above  all,  in  the  round  of  his  daily  life,  and  in  the  circle  of  family  and 
home." — London  Academy. 

"  Neither  the  editor  nor  translator  of  Meneval's  memoirs  has  miscalculated  his  deep 
interest  —an  interest  which  does  not  depend  on  literary  style  but  on  the  substance  of  what 
is  related.  Whoever  reads  this  volume  will  wait  with  impatience  for  the  remainder." — 
jV.  Y.  Tribiuie. 

"The  work  will  take  rank  with  the  most  important  of  memoirs  relating  to  the  period. 
Its  great  value  arises  largely  from  its  author's  transparent  veracity.  Meneval  was  one 
of  those  men  who  could  not  consciously  tell  anything  but  the  truth.  He  was  constitu- 
tionally unfitted  for  lying.  .  .  .  The  book  is  extremely  interesting,  and  it  is  as  impor- 
tant as  it  is  interesting." — N.  Y.  Times. 

"  Few  memoirists  have  given  us  a  more  minute  account  of  Napoleon.  .  .  .  No  lover 
of  Napoleon,  no  admirer  of  his  wonderful  genius,  can  fail  to  read  these  interesting  and 
important  volumes  which  have  been  waited  for  for  years." — N.  Y.  World. 

"  The  book  will  be  hailed  with  delight  by  the  collectors  of  Napoleonic  literature,  as 
it  covers  much  ground  wholly  unexplored  by  the  great  majority  of  the  biographers  of 
Napoleon." — Providence  Journal. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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TWO  VALUABLE    BOOKS. 

ANDBOOK     OF     BIRDS     OF     EASTERN 

NORTH  AMERICA.  With  Keys  to  the  Species  ;  Descrip- 
tions of  their  Plumages,  Nests,  etc.  ;  their  Distribution  and 
Migrations.  By  Frank  M.  Chapman,  Assistant  Curator  of 
Mammalogy  and  Ornithology,  American  Museum  of  Natural 
History.  With  over  200  Illustrations.  i2mo.  Library  Edi- 
tion, $3.00  ;  Pocket  Edition,  flexible  covers,  $3.50. 

The  author's  position  has  not  only  given  him  exceptional  opportunities 
for  the  preparation  of  a  work  which  may  be  considered  as  authoritative,  but 
has  brought  him  in  direct  contact  with  beginners  in  the  study  of  birds, 
whose  wants  he  thus  thoroughly  understands.  The  technicalities  so  con- 
fusing to  the  amateur  are  avoided,  and  by  the  use  of  illustrations,  concise 
descriptions,  analytical  keys,  dates  of  migration,  and  remarks  on  distribu- 
tion, haunts,  notes,  and  characteristic  habits,  the  problem  of  identification, 
either  in  the  field  or  study,  is  reduced  to  its  simplest  terms. 

"Written  in  simple,  nontechnical  language,  with  special  reference  to  the  needs  of 
amateurs  and  bird-lovers,  yet  with  an  accuracy  of  detail  that  makes  it  a  standard  au- 
thority on  the  birds  of  eastern  North  America." — J.  A.  Allen,  Editor  of  The  Auk. 

"A  boon  to  the  amateur,  a  convenience  to  the  professional,  and  wili  prove  a  help 
and  incentive  to  the  study  of  birds." — C.  Hart  Merriam. 

"I  am  delighted  with  the  'Handbook.'  It  is  so  entirely  trustworthy  and  up  to 
date  that  I  can  heartily  recommend  it." — Olive  Thome  Miller. 

"One  seldom  finds  so  many  good  things  in  a  single  volume,  and  I  can  not  recom- 
mend it  too  highly.  Its  conciseness  and  freedom  from  errors,  together  with  its  many 
original  ideas,  make  it  the  standard  work  of  its  class." — John  H.  Sage. 

"  What  we  have  all  waited  for." — Bradford  Torrey. 


PAMTLTAR      FLOWERS     OF     FIELD     AND 
•*■         GARDEN.      By  F.  Schuyler  Mathews.      Illustrated  with 

200  Drawings  by  the  Author.     i2mo.     Library  Edition,  $1.75  ; 

Pocket  Edition,  flexible  covers,  $2.25. 

In  this  convenient  and  useful  volume  the  flowers  which  one  finds  in  the 
field  are  identified,  illustrated,  and  described  in  familiar  language.  Their 
connection  with  garden  flowers  is  made  clear.  Particular  attention  is  drawn 
to  the  beautiful  ones  which  have  come  under  cultivation,  and,  as  the  title 
indicates,  the  book  furnishes  a  ready  guide  to  a  knowledge  of  wild  and  culti- 
vated flowers  alike. 


New  York:   D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 

STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. 


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